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Galiiouma Sketches 



BY 

O. p. FITZGEEALD. 



"A7id one upon the West 
Turned an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off hills whereon his joys had been.'' 



I-'OIBTM muTMo.y^ 



-•■-■l. ., 



NASHVILLE, TENN.: 

Southern Methodist Publishing House. 

1880. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by 

O. P. FITZGERALD, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



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AUTHOR'S Preface. 



THESE Sketches wrote themselves, as it were. About 
three years ago my friend, Prof. Alonzo Phelj)S (for- 
merly of Harvard University), in reply to my remark 
that somebody ought to preserve the vanishing phases of 
the early California life, said, "Yes, it ought to be done, 
and you are the man to do it." The matter was tlien 
dismissed from my mind as the flattering suggestion of 
a partial friend. After leaving California, every thing 
connected with my life, or that had come under my obser- 
vation while there, assumed a fresh interest to my own 
mind. The remark of my friend was remembered, and, 
more to gratify a kindly impulse than with a view to make 
a volume, in snatches of such leisure as an editor gets, the 
penciling of these humble Sketches began. Now that the 
little book is finished, I am at least half sorry it was ever 
begun. Yet there has been a pleasure in writing it. The 
old days have come back to me again, and images that 
were fading have stood before me in the form and color 
of life. Ah! if I could make them stand thus before my 
kind readers ! The Sketches are all from real life. In one 
or two instances names are disguised for obvious reasons. 
I have told the story as I saw it, and as I remember it. 
There is no fancy-sketch among these chapters. If I had 

(3) 



4 Author s Preface. 

entered that field, a volume more suited to the modern 
taste miglit have been the result; but it would have had 
no value as a picture of actual life. An anachronism may 
be found here or there. I wrote wholly from memory, 
and am not strong in the matter of dates. Except inci- 
dentally, no mention is made of persons still living, 
though the promptings of affectionate admiration made 
a strong temptation to place some living faces on tlie 
canvas. 

My motive in publishing in this form is not a bad one. 
It is not literary ambition ; for I am conscious that the 
risk is equal to the possible gain in that direction. It is 
not to put a shadow upon tlie memory of the dead, or to 
inflict a pang upon a living soul. My motive is such as 
all noble spirits would approve, but which need not be 
stated here. With these words I send forth my little 
book, leaving it to its fate. 

One of these chapters is from a different hand. Which 
one it is, is left to the discrimination of the critical reader. 

O. P. FITZGEKALD. 

Nashville, September, 1879. 



Contents. 



PAGE 

My First Sunday in the Mines 7 

CiSSAII A 14 

A Youthful Desperado 28 

A Woman of the Early Day's 33 

Lost on Table Mountain 41 

Fulton 52 

Blighted 59 

Stranded 65 

LOCKLEY 72 

Father Cox 81 

An Interview 89 

Stewart 97 

The Ethics of Grizzly Hunting 107 

A Mendocino Murder 114 

Ben 120 

Old Tuolumne 124 

The Blue Lakes 127 

A California Mountain Koad 133 

Dr. Eleazar Thomas 135 

Father Acolti 144 

My First California Camp-meeting 150 

The Tragedy at Algerine 160 

California Traits 168 

California AVeddings 182 

North Beach, San Francisco 197 

St. Helen's at Sunrise 208 



MY FIRST SUKDAY IN THE MINES. 




toNORA, in 1855, was an exciting, wild, 
wicked, fascinating place. Gold-dust and 
^^>^^;^^ gamblers were plentiful. A rich mining 
camp is a bonanza to the sporting fraternity. The 
peculiar excitement of mining is near akin to 
gambling, and seems to prepare the gold-hunter 
for the faro-bank and monte-table. The life was 
free and spiced with tragedy. The men were reck- 
less, the women few and not wholly select. The 
conventionalities of older communities were ig- 
nored. People dressed and talked as they pleased, 
and were a law unto themselves. Even a parson 
could gallop at full speed through a mining camp 
without exciting remark. To me it was all new, 
and at first a little bewildering, but there was a 
charm about it that lingers pleasantly in the mem- 
ory after the lapse of all these long years from 
1855 to 1879. 

Sonora was a picture unique in its beauty as I 

(7) 



8 My First Sunday in the Mines. 

first looked down upon it from the crest of the 
highest hill above the town that bright May morn- 
ing. The air exhilarated like wine. The sky was 
deep blue without a speck of cloud. The toAvn 
lay stretched between two ranges of hills, the cozy 
cottages and rude cabins straggling along their 
sides, while the full tide of life flowed through 
AVashington street in the center, where thousands 
of miners jostled one another as they moved to 
and fro. High hills encircled the place on all 
sides protectingly, and Bald Mountain, dark and 
bare, lifted above all the rest, seemed to watch the 
queen city of the mines like a dusky duenna. The 
far-off Sierras, white and cold, lay propped against 
the sky like shrouded giants under their winding- 
sheets of snow. Near me stood a lone pine which 
had escaped the ruthless ax because there was a 
grave under it marked by a rude cross. 

Descending to the main street again, I found it 
crowded with flannel-shirted men. They seemed 
to be excited, judging from their loud tones and 
fierce gesticulations. 

" They have caught Felipe at French Camp, and 
they will have him here by ten o'clock," said one 
of a group near me. 

"Yes, and the boys are getting ready to swing 

the greaser when he gets here," said another, 

savagely. 



My First Sunday in the Mines. 9 

On inquiry, I learned that the gentleman for 
whose arrival such preparation was being made 
was a Mexican who had stabbed to the heart a 
policeman named Sheldon two nights before. The 
assassin fled the town, but the sheriff and his posse 
had gotten on his track, and, pursuing rapidly, had 
overtaken him at French Camj), and were now re- 
turning with their prisoner in charge. Sheldon 
was a good-natured, generous fellow, popular with 
the " boy^." He was brave to a fault, perhaps a 
little too ready at times to use his pistol. Two 
Mexicans had been shot by him since his call to 
police duty, and though the Americans justified 
him in so doing, the Mexicans cherished a bitter 
feeling toward him. Sheldon knew that he was 
hated by those swarthy fellows whose strong point 
is not forgiveness of enemies, and not long before 
the tragedy was heard to say, in a half-serious tone, 
." I expect to die in my boots." Poor fellow ! it 
came sooner than he thought. 

By ten o'clock Washington street was densely 
thronged by red and blue-shirted men, whose re- 
marks showed that they were ripe for mischief. 

" Hang him, I say ! If we allow the officers 
who w^atch for our protection when we are asleep 
to be murdered in this way nobody is safe. I say 
hang him ! " shouted a thick-chested miner, gritting 
liis teeth. 



10 My First Sunday in the Mines. 

" That 's the talk ! swing him ! " " Hang him ! " 
"Put cold lead through him!" and such like ex- 
pressions were heard on all sides. 

Suddenly there was a rush of the crowd toward 
the point where Washington street intersected with 
the Jamestown road. Then the tide flowed back- 
ward, and came surging by the place where I was 
standing. 

" There he comes ! at him, boys ! " "A rope ! a 
rope ! " " Go for him ! " shouted a hundred voices. 

The object of the popular execration, guarded 
by the sheriff and posse of about twenty men, was 
hurried along in the middle of the street, his hat 
gone, his bOsom bare, a red sash round his waist. 
He was a bad-looking fellow, and in the rapid 
glances he cast at the angry crowd around him 
tliere was more of hate than fear. The flashes of 
his dark eyes made one think of the gleam of the 
deadly Spanish dirk. The tAventy picked men 
guarding him had each a revolver in his hand, 
with Major Solomon, the sheriff, at their head. 
The mob knew Solomon. He had distinguished 
himself for cool courage in the Mexican war, and 
they were well aware that those pistols were pa- 
raded for use if occasion demanded. 

The 2:)risoner was taken into the Placer Hotel, 
where the coroner's jury was held, the mob sur- 
rounding the building and roaring like a sea. 



My First Sunday in the llines. 11 

" There they come ! go for him, boys ! " was 
shouted as the doors were flung open, and Felipe 
appeared, attended by his guard. 

A rush was made, but there was Solomon with 
his twenty men pistol in hand, and no man dared 
to lay a hand on the murderer. With steady step 
they marched to the jail, the crowd parting as the 
sheriff and his posse advanced, and the prisoner 
was hurried inside and the doors locked. 

Baffled thus, for a few moments the mob was 
silent, and then it exploded with imprecations and 
yells. 

" Break open the door ! " " Tear down the jail ! " 
"Bring him out!" "Who has a rope?" "Out 
with him ! " 

Cool and collected, Solomon stood on the door- 
step, his twenty men standing holding their re- 
volvers ready. The County Judge Quint attempted 
to address the excited mass, but his voice was 
drowned by their yells. The silver-tongued Henry 
P. Barber, an orator born, and whose sad career 
would make a romance of thrilling interest, es- 
sayed to speak, but even his magic voice was lost 
in the tornado of popular fury. 

I had climbed a high fence above the jail-yard, 
where the whole scene w^as before me. When 
Barber gave up the attempt to get a hearing from 
the mob, there was a momentary silence. Solo- 



1 2 3Ty First Sunday in the Mines. 

nion saw the opportunity, and lifting his hand, he 
said: 

" Will you hear me a moment ? I am not fool 
enough to think that with these twenty men I can 
whip this crowd. You can overcome us by your 
numbers and kill us if you choose. Perhaps you 
will do it — I am ready for that. I don't say I 
can prevent you, but I do say [and here his eye 
kindled and his voice had a steel-like ring] the 
first man that touches that jail-door dies!" 

There was a perceptible thrill throughout that 
dense mass of human beings. No man volunteered 
to lead an assault on the jail-door. Solomon fol- 
lowed up this stroke : 

" Boys, when you take time to reflect, you will 
see that this is all wrong. I was elected by your 
votes, and you are acting in bad faith when you 
put me in a position w^here I must violate my 
sworn duty or fight you. This is the holy Sab- 
bath-day. Back in our old homes we have been 
used to different scenes from this. The prisoner 
will be kept, and tried, and duly punished by the 
law. Let us give three cheers for the clergy of 
California, two of whom I see present [pointing to 
where my Presbyterian neighbor, the Pev. S. S. 
Harmon, and I were perched conspicuously], and 
then go home like good citizens." 

Courage and tact prevailed. The mob was con- 



3Iy First Sunday in the Ifines. 13 

quered. The cheers were given with a will, the 
croAvd melted away, and in a few minutes the jail- 
yard was clear. 

I lingered alone, and was struck with the sud- 
den transition. The sun was sinking in the west, 
already the town below was wrapped in shade, the 
tops of the encircling hills caught the lingering 
beams, the loftier crest of Bald Mountain blazing 
as if it were a mass of burnished gold. It was the 
calm and glory of nature in sharp contrast with 
the turbulence and brutality of men. 

Wending my way back to the hotel, I seated 
myself on the piazza of the second story, and 
watched the motley crowd going in and out of the 
"Long Tom" drinking and gambling saloon across 
the street, musing upon the scenes of my first Sun- 
day in the mines. 



CISSAIIA. 




FIKST noticed him one night at a prayer- 
meeting at Sonora, in the Southern Mines, 
in 1855. He came in timidly, and took a 
seat near the door. His manner was reverent, and 
he watched the exercises with curious interest, his 
eyes following every gesture of the preacher, and 
his ears losing not a word that was said or sung. 
I was struck with his peculiar physiognomy as he 
sat there with his thin, swarthy face, his soft, sad, 
black eyes, and long black hair. I could not 
make him out; he might be Mexican, Spanish, 
Portuguese, "Kanaka," or what not. He waited 
until I passed out at the close of the meeting, and, 
bowing very humbly, placed half a dollar in my 
hand, and walked away. This hap23ened several 
weeks in succession, and I noticed him at church on 
Sunday evenings. He would come in after the 
crowd had entered, and take his place near the door. 
He never failed to hand me the half dollar at the 

(14) 



Cissaha. 1 



r 



close of every service, his dark, wistful-looking eyes 
lighting up with pleasure as I took the coin from 
his hand. He never waite'd to talk, but hurried off 
at once. My curiosity was excited, and I began 
to feel a special interest in this strange-looking 
foreigner. 

I was sitting one morning in the little room on 
the hill-side, which was at once dining-room, parlor, 
bed-chamber, and study, when, lifting my eyes a 
moment from the book I was reading, there stood 
my strange foreigner in the door. 

"Come in," I said kindly. 

Making profound salaams, he rushed impulsive- 
ly toward me, exclaiming in broken English — 

" My good brahmin ! My good brahmin ! " with 
a torrent of Avords that I could not understand. 

I invited him to take a seat, but he declined. 
He looked flushed and excited, his dark eyes flash- 
ing. I soon found that he could understand En- 
glish much better than he could speak it himself. 

"What is your name?" I asked. 

"Cissaha," he answered, accenting strongly the 
last syllable. 

"Of what nation are you?" was my next ques- 
tion. 

"Me Hindoo — me good caste," he added rather 
proudly. 

After gratifying my curiosity by answering my 



16 Cissaha. 

many questions, he told his business with me. It 
was with great difficulty that I could make out 
what he said; his pronunciation was sadly imper- 
fect at best, and when he talked himself into an 
excited state, his speech was a terrible jargon of 
confused and strange sounds. The substance of 
his story was, that, though belonging to a caste 
which was above such work, necessity had forced 
him to take the place of a cook in a miner's board- 
ing-house at a notorious camp called aptly Whisky 
Hill, which was about three miles from Sonora. 
After six months' service, the proprietor of the 
establishment had dismissed him with no other pay 
than a bogus title to a mining claim. When the 
poor fellow went to take possession, the rightful 
owners drove him away with many blows and 
much of that peculiarly emphatic profanity for 
which California was rather noted in those early 
days. On going back to his employer with the 
story of his failure to get possession of the mining 
claim, he was driven away with cursing and threats, 
without a dollar for months of hard work. 

This was Cissaha's story. He had come to me 
for redress. I felt no little sympathy for him as 
he stood before me, so helpless in a strange land. 
He had been shamefully wronged, and I felt indig- 
nant at the recital. But I told him that while I 
was sorry for him, I could do nothing ; he had bet- 



Cissaha. 17 

ter put the case in the hands of a lawyer. I sug- 
gested the name of one. 

"No, no!" he said passionately; "you my good 
brahmin ; you go Whisky Hill, you make Flank 
Powell pay my money ! " 

He seemed to think that as a teacher of religion 
I must be invested also with some sort of authority 
in civil matters. I could not make him under- 
stand that this was not so. 

"You ride horse, me w^alk; Flank Pow^ell see 
my good brahmin come, he pay money," urged 
Cissaha. 

Yielding to a sudden impulse, I told him I would 
go with him. He bowed almost to the floor, and 
the tears, which had flowed freely as he told his 
tale of wrongs, were wiped away. 

Mounting Dr. Jack Franklin's sorrel horse—my 
pen pauses as I write the name of that noble Ten- 
nessean, that true and generous friend — I started 
to AVhisky Hill, my client keeping alongside on 
foot. 

As we proceeded, I could not help feeling that I 
was on a sort of fool's errand. It was certainly a 
new role for me. But my sympathy had been ex- 
cited, and I fortified myself by repeating mentally 
all those scriptures of the Old and New Testaments 
which enjoin kindness to strangers. 

I found that Cissaha was well known in the 
2 



18 Cissaha. 

camp, and that he was generally liked. Every- 
body seemed to know how he had been treated, and 
the popular feeling was on his side. Several par- 
ties confirmed his statement of the case in every 
l^articular. Walking along among the mining 
claims, with a proud and confident air, he would 
point to me, saying — 

" There my good brahmin — he make Flank Pow- 
ell pay my money now." 

" Powell is a rough customer," said a tall young 
fellow from New York, who stood near the trail 
with a pick in his hand ; " he will give you trouble 
before you get through with him " 

Cissaha only shook his head in a knowing way 
and hastened on, keeping my sorrel in a brisk little 
trot. 

A stout and ill-dressed woman was standing in the 
porch of Mr. Powell's establishment as I rode up. 

"Is Mr. PoAvell at home?" I asked. 

" Yes, he is in the house," she said dryly, scowl- 
ing alternately at Cissaha and me. 

"Please tell him that I would like to see him." 

She went into the house after giving us a parting 
angry glance, and in a fcAV minutes Mr. Powell 
made his appearance. He looked the rufl[ian that 
he was all over. A huge fellow, with enormous 
breadth between the shoulders, and the chest of a 
bull, with a fiery red face, blear blue eyes red at 



Cissaha. 19 

the corners, coarse sandy hair, and a vilLainous 
tout ensemble every way, he was as bad a specimen 
of my kind as I had ever met. 

"What do you want with me?" he growled out 
after taking a look at us. 

" I understand," I answered in my blandest tones, 
"that there has been some difficulty in making a 
settlement between you and this Hindoo man, and 
at his request I have come over to see if I can help 
to adjust it." 

" you ! " said the ruffian, " if you come here 

meddling with my affiiirs I '11 knock you off that 
horse." 

He was a rough customer to look at just then. 

Cissaha looked a little alarmed, and drew nearer 
to me. 

I looked the man in the eye and answered — 

"I am not afraid of any violence at your hands. 
You dare not attempt it. You have cruelly 
wronged this poor foreigner, and you know it. 
Every man in the camp condemns you for it, and 
is ashamed of your conduct. Now, I intend to see 
this thing through. I will devote a year to it and 
spend every dollar I can raise if necessary to make 
you pay this debt ! " 

By this time quite a crowd of miners had gath- 
ered around us, and there were unmistakable ex- 
pressions of approval of my speech. 



20 Cissaha. 

"That's the right sort of talk!" exclaimed a 
grizzly-bearded man in a red shirt. 

"Stand up to him, parson!" said another. 

There was a pause. Powell, as I learned after- 
ward, was detested in the camp. He had the rep- 
utation of a bully and a cheat. I think he was 
likewise a coward. At any rate, as I warmed 
with virtuous indignation, he cooled. Perhaps he 
did not like the expressions on the faces of the 
rough, athletic men standing around. 

"What do you want me to do?" he asked in a 
sullen tone. 

"I want you to pay this man what you owe him," 
I answered. , 

The negotiations begun thus un23romisingly 
ended very happily. After making some deduction 
on some pretext or other, the money was paid, 
much to my relief and the joy of my client. Mr. 
Powell indulged in no parting courtesies, nor did 
he tender me the hospitalities of his house. I have 
never seen him from that day to this. I have never 
wished to renew his acquaintance. 

Cissaha marched back to Sonora in triumph. 

A few days after the Whisky Hill adventure, as 
I was sitting on the rear side of the little parsonage 
to get the benefit of the shade, I had another visit 
from Cissaha. He had on his shoulder a miner's 
pick and shovel, which he laid down at my feet. 



Cissaha. 21 

"What is that for?" I asked. 

" My good brahmin look at pick and shobel, then 
no break, and find heap gold," said he, his face full 
of trust and hopefulness. 

I cast a kindly glance at the implements, and 
did not think it worth while to combat his innocent 
superstition. If good wishes could have brought 
him good luck the poor fellow w^ould have pros- 
leered in his search after gold. 

From that time on he was scarcely ever absent 
from church services, never omitting to pay his 
weekly half dollar. More than once I observed 
the tears running down his cheeks as he sat near 
the door, eye and ear all attent to the service. 

A day or two before my departure for Confer- 
ence, at the end of my two years in Sonora, Cissaha 
made me a visit. He looked sad and anxious. 

"You go way?" he inquired. 

"Yes, I must go," I answered. 

"You no come back Sonora?" he asked. 

"No; I cannot come back," I said. 

He stood a moment, his chest heaving with emo- 
tion, and then said — 

"Me go with you, me live where you live, me die 
where you die" — almost the very words of the fair 
young Moabite. 

Cissaha went with us. How could I refuse to 
take him? At San Jose he lived with us, doing 



22 Cissaha, 

our cooking, nursing our little Paul, and making 
himself generally useful. He taught us to love 
curry and to eat cucumbers Hindoo fashion — that 
is, stewed with veal or chicken. He was the gen- 
tlest and most docile of servants, never out of tem- 
per, and always anxious to please. Little Paul 
was very fond of him, and often he would take him 
off in his baby-wagon, and they would be gone for 
hours together. 

He never tired asking questions about the Chris- 
tian religion, and manifested a peculiar delight in 
the words and life of Jesus. One day he came into 
my study and said— 

" Me want you to make me Christian." 

" I can't make you a Christian — Jesus can do it," 
I answered. 

He looked greatly puzzled and troubled at this 
reply, but when I had explained the whole matter 
to him, he brightened up and intimated that he 
wanted to join the Church. I enrolled his name 
as a probationer, and his delight was unbounded. 

One day Cissaha came to me all smiling, and 
said — 

" Me want to give all the preachers one big din- 
ner." 

" Very well," I answered ; " I will let you do so. 
How many do you want?" 

" Me want heap preachers, table all full," he said. 



Cissaha. 23 

He gave me to understand tliat the feast must 
be altogether his own — his money must buy every 
thing, even to the salt and pepper for seasoning the 
dishes. He would use nothing that was in the 
house, but bought flour, fowls, beef, vegetables, con- 
fectionery, coffee, tea, every thing for the great occa- 
sion. He made a grand dinner, not forgetting the 
curry, and with a table full of preachers to enjoy 
it, he was a picture of happiness. His dark face 
beamed with delight as he handed around the 
viands to the smiling and appreciative guests. He 
had some Hindoo notion that there was great merit 
in feasting so many belonging to the brahmin caste. 
To him the dinner was a sort of sacrifice most 
acceptable to Heaven. 

My oriental domestic seemed very happy for some 
months, and became a general favorite on account 
of his gentle manners, docile temper, and obliging 
disposition. His name was shortened to "Tom" 
by the popular usage, and under the instructions 
of the mistress of the parsonage he began the 
study of English. Poor fellowM he never could 
make the sound of f or z, the former always turn- 
ing to p, and the latter to (/, upon his tongue. 
I believe there are no p's or g's in the Hindoo- 
stance, 

A change came over Cissaha. He became all at 
once moody and silent. Several times I found him 



24 Cissaha. 

in teal's. Something was the matter with him, that 
was clear. 

One afternoon the secret came out. He came 
into my room. There were traces of tears on his 
cheeks. 

" I go 'way — can stay with my pather [father] 
no more," he said, with a quiver in his voice. 

"Why, what is the matter? " I asked. 

" Debbil in here," he answered, touching his fore- 
head. " Debbil tell me drink whisky ; me no drink 
where my pather stay, so must go." 

" Why, I did not know you ever drank whisky ; 
where did you learn that?" I asked. 

"Me drink with the boys at Flank Powell's — 
drink beer and whisky. No drink for long time, 
but debbil in here [touching his forehead] say must 
drink." 

He was a picture of shame and grief as he stood 
there before me. How hard he must have fought 
against the appetite for strong drink since he had 
been with me ! — and how full of shame and sorrow 
he was to confess his weakness to me ! He told me 
all about it — ^how he had been treated to beer and 
whisky by the good-natured miners, and how the 
taste for liquor had grown on him, and how he had 
resisted for a time, and how he had at last yielded 
to the feeling that the devil was too strong for him. 
That the devil was in it, he seemed to have no 



Cissaha. 25 

doubt. And truly it was so — the crudest, deadli- 
est of devils, the devil of drink ! As a Hindoo, in 
his own country no strong drink had ever passed 
his lips. The fiery potations of Whisky Hill were 
too much for him. 

"You should pray, Cissaha." 

"Me pray all night, but debbil too strong — me 
must drink whisky ! " he said vehemently. 

He left us. The parting was very sad to him 
and us. He had a special cry over little Paul. 

" You my pather [to me] ; you my mother [to 
my wife] ; I go, but me pack you both always in 
my belly ! " 

We could but smile through our tears. The 
poor fellow meant to say he would still bear us in 
his grateful heart in his wanderings. 

After a few months he came to see us. He 
looked seedy and sad. He had found employment, 
but did not stay long at a place. He had stopped 
awhile with a Presbyterian minister in the Sacra- 
mento Valley, and was solicited by him to join the 
Church. 

" Me tell him no ! " he said, his eye flashing ; " me 
tell him my pather done make me Christian ; me 
no want to be made Christian again." 

The poor fellow was true to his first love, sad 
Christian as he was. 

"Me drink no whisky for four, five week — me 



26 Cissaha. 

noAV try to stop. Give me prayer to say when 
debbil get in here" — touching his head. 

That was what he had come for chiefly. I gave 
him the form of a short and simple prayer. He 
repeated it after me in his way UDtil he had it by 
heart, and then he left. 

Once or twice a year he came to see us, and 
always had a pathetic tale to tell of his struggles 
with strong drink, and the greed and violence of 
men who were tempted to oppress and maltreat a 
poor creature whose weakness invited injustice. 

He told us of an adventure when acting as a 
sheep-herder in Southern California, whither he 
had wandered. A large flock of sheep which he 
had in charge had been disturbed in the corral a 
couple of nights in succession. On the third night, 
hearing a commotion among them, he sprang up 
from his bunk and rushed out to see what was the 
matter. But let him tell the story : 

" Me run out to see what 's matter ; stars shine 
blight ; me get into corral ; sheep all bery much 
scared, and bery much run, and bery much jump. 
Big black bear jump over corral fence and come 
right for me. Me so flighten me know nothing, 
but raise my arms, run at bear, and say, E-e-e-e-e-e ! " 
j)rolongiiig the shrill scream and becoming terribly 
excited as he went on. 

"Well, how did it end?" I asked. 



Cissaha. 27 

" Me scream so loud that bear get scared too, and 
he turn, run bery fast, jump over corral, and run 
away." 

We did not doubt this story. The narration 
was too vivid to have been invented, and that 
scream was enough to upset the nerves of any 
grizzly. 

We got to looking for him at regular intervals. 
He would bring candies and little presents for the 
children, and would give a tearful recital of his 
experiences and take a tearful leave of us. He 
was fighting his enemy and still claiming to be a 
Christian. He said many things which showed 
that he had thought earnestly and deeply on relig- 
ious subjects, and he would end by saying, "Jesus, 
help me ! Jesus, help me I " 

He came to see us after the death of our Paul, 
and he wept when we told him how our dear boy 
had left us. He had had a long sickness in the 
hospital. He had before expressed a desire to go 
back to his own country, and now this desire had 
grown into a passion. His wan face lighted up as 
he looked wistfully seaward from the bay-window 
of our cottage on the hill above the Golden Gate. 
He left us with a slow and feeble step, often look- 
ing back as long as he was in sight. 

That was the last of Cissaha. I know not 
whether he is in Hindostan or the world of spirits. 



A YOUTHFUL DESPERADO. 



Ftf^iHEKE'S a young chap in the jail over 
Jr^J there you ought to go and see. It's the 
^r>^ one who killed the two Chinamen on 
Woods's Creek, a few weeks ago. He goes by the 
name of Tom Ellis. He is scarcely more than a 
boy, but he is a hard one. May be you can do 
him some good." 

This was said to me by one of the sheriff's depu- 
ties, a kind-hearted fellow, but brave as a lion — ■ 
one of those quiet, low-voiced men who do the most 
daring things in a matter-of-course way — a man who 
never made threats and never showed a weapon 
except when he was about to use it with deadly 
effect. 

The next day I went over to see the yojing mur- 
derer. I was startled at his youthful appearance, 
and struck with his beauty. His features were 
feminine in their delicacy, and his skin was almost 
as soft and fair as a child's. He had dark hair, 

(28) 



A Youthful Desperado. 20 

bright blue eyes, and white teeth. He was of me- 
dium size, and was faultless in physique. Though 
heavily ironed, his step was vigorous and springy, 
indicating unusual strength and agility. 

This fair-faced, almost girlish youth, had com- 
mitted one of the most atrocious double murders 
ever known. Approaching two Chinamen w^ho 
were working an abandoned mining claim on the 
creek, he demanded their gold-dust, exhibiting at 
the same time a Bowie-knife. The Chinamen, ter- 
rified, dropped their mining tools and fled, pursued 
by the young devil, wdio, fleet of foot, soon over- 
took the poor creatures, and with repeated stabs in 
the back cut them down. A passer-by found him 
engaged in rifling their pockets of the gold-dust, 
to the value of about twenty dollars, which had 
tempted him to commit the horrid crime. 

These were the facts in the case, as brought out 
in the trial. It was also shown that he had borne 
a very bad name, associating with the worst char- 
acters, and being suspected strongly of other crimes 
against life and property. He was convicted and 
sentenced to death. 

This was the man I had come to see. He re- 
ceived me politely, but I made little progress in 
my attempt to turn his thoughts to the subject of 
prej^aration for death. He allowed me to read the 
Bible in his cell and pray for him, but I could see 



80 A Youthful Desperado. 

plainly enough that he took no interest in it. I 
left a Bible with him, with the leaves turned down 
to mark such portions of the word of God as would 
be most likely to do him good, and he promised to 
read it, but it was evident he did not do it. For 
weeks I tried in every possible way to reach his 
conscience and sensibilities, but in vain. I asked 
him one day — 

"Have you a mother living?" 

" Yes ; she lives in Ohio, and is a member of the 
Baptist Church." 

"Does she know where you are?" 

" No — she thinks I 'm dead, and she will never 
know any better. It's just as well — it would do 
the old lady no good. The name I go by here is 
not my real name — no man in California knows 
my true name." 

Even this chord did not respond. He was as 
cold and hard as ice. I kept up my visits to him, 
and continued my efforts to win him to thoughts 
suitable to his condition, but he never showed the 
least sign of penitence or feeling of any kind. He 
was the only human being I have ever met who did 
not have a tender spot somewhere in his nature. 
If he had any such spot, my poor skill failed to 
discover it. 

One day, after I had spent an hour or more with 
him, he said to me — 



A Youthful Desperado. 31 

" You mean well iu coming here to see me, and 
I 'm ahvays glad to see you, as I get very lonesome, 
but there 's no use in keeping up any deception 
about the matter. I don't care any thing about 
religion, and all your talk on that subject is wasted. 
But if you could help me to get out of this jail, so 
that I could kill the man Avhose evidence convicted 

me, I w^ould thank you. him! I would be 

willing to die if I could kill him first ! " 

As he spoke his eye glittered like a serpent's, 
and I felt that I was in the presence of a fiend. 
From this time on there was no disguise on his part ; 
he thirsted for blood, and hated to die chiefly 
because it cut him off" from his revenge. He did 
not deny the commission of the murders, and cared 
no more for it than he would for the shooting of a 
rabbit. As a psychological study, this fair young- 
devil profoundly interested me, and I sought to 
learn more of his history, that I might know how 
much of his fiendishness was due to organic tend- 
ency, and how much to evil association. But he 
would tell nothing of his former life, and I was left 
to conjecture as to what w^ere the influences that 
had so completely blasted every bud and blossom 
of good in one so young. And he was so hand- 
some ! 

He made several desperate attempts to break 
jail, and was loaded down with extra irons and 



32 



A Youthful DcsiKrado. 



put under special guard. The night before his 
execution he slept soundly, and ate a hearty break- 
fast next morning. At the gallows he showed no 
fear or emotion of any kind. He was brooding on 
his revenge to the last moment. " It is well for 
Short that I did n't get out of this — I would like to 
live long enough to kill him!" were about the last 
words he uttered, in a sort of soliloquizing way. 
The black cap was drawn over his fair, handsome 
face, and without a quiver of the nerves, or the least 
tremor of the pulse, he was launched into the world 
of spirits, in the midst of a rabble who looked on 
with mingled curiosity, awe, and pity. 



A AVOMAX OF THE EARLY Dx\YS. 



[fM/NE day iu the summer of 1856) I was called 
iSj& ^^ attend a wedding iu the city of Souora. 
%iie^ At the ap2:)ointed hour I repaired to the 
house designated, a neat little cottage surrounded 
with flowers and shrubbery. A pleasant party had 
already assembled in the snug little parlor. In a 
few minutes the bridegroom entered the room. He 
was a fine specimen of manly beauty. He had a 
faultless figure, a handsome, winning face, and 
graceful manners, a little dashed with Californian 
abandon. After a little conversation he left the 
room, and soon returned, presenting himself with 
the bride, ready for the ceremony. She was very 
beautiful ; her form w^as perfectly rounded, a model 
for an artist, her face fair and sunny, shaded by 
luxuriant dark, clustering hair, her eyes large and 
lustrous. They were both radiant with happiness, 
and it was a merry party that sat down to the ele- 
gant dinner which followed the bridal ceremony. 
3 (33) 



84 A Woman of the Early Days. 

Tnis marriage made a brief sensation. The par- 
ties Avere both well known, and the bride's Califor- 
nia life made one of tliose romantic episodes so 
common in those early days. The romance, alas! 
was too often tinged with the darker colors of sin. 
So it was in this case. This' is the story of Kate 
S , as told to me by herself: 

"I was the youngest child of a happy family 

near L , in Pennsylvania. I was called jDrctty, 

and was the pet of the household. When I was 
scarcely sixteen, while still a school-girl, a wealthy 
neighbor proposed to marry me. My father favored 
the proposal. I was startled by it, and told my 
father I did not and could not love him, and would 
not marry him. My lover persisted in his addresses, 
my father seconding his suit, and at last I con- 
sented to wed him. O how bitterly have I rued 
the day ! I could not love him, and I soon ceased 
to respect him. He was cold, selfish, and jealous. 
He 2^etted and flattered me at first, but soon dis- 
covering that I did not love him, and only endured 
his caresses, his conduct changed into systematic 
injustice and oppression. When a child was born 
to us, I tried to love him for its sake. I tried to do 
my duty as a wife, but was unhappy, desi:)ite tlie 
wealth for wliich I had been sold. jNIy husband's 
business took an unfortunate turn, and he lost 
nearly all he had. Then he became still more 



A Woman of the Early Days. 35 

unkiud to me, while at the same time I was denied 
many of the comforts and hixuries to which I had 
become accustomed. 

"In 1849 he suddenly avowed his purpose to go 
to California, and started at once, leaving me with 
my father. He had heen in California about a 
year, when he w^rote to me, giving an encouraging 
account of his success, asking me to go to him, and 
promising to do every thing in his power to make 
me happy. I thought it my duty to go, still indulg- 
ing a lingering hope that he might be a different 
man, and that we might yet be happy. 

" I wrote to him, .telling him when I would start, 
and asking him to meet me in San Francisco on 
my arrival. When we passed through the Golden 
Gate, entered the bay, and landed at the wdiarf, I 
looked in vain for him among the crowds in wait- 
ing. He w^as not there — every face was strange. 
After waiting in San Francisco two days, I pro- 
ceeded to Sonora, whence his letters had been writ- 
ten, having barely money enough to meet the ex- 
pense of the journey. 

" On my arrival at Sonora, I learned that he was 
in the vicinity, and sent for him. He came, but 
greeted me coldly, though he seemed glad to see 
the child, then six years old. He engaged board 
for me at a hotel, but left the place without pay- 
ing. When the bill was presented to me, having 



36 A Woman of the Early Days. 

no money to pay it, I offered to hire myself to 
the hotel-keeper as a servant, and my offer was 
accepted. My husband did not come near me. I 
learned the reason : he had left, in company with 
a disreputable woman, not even taking leave of his 
child. My duties as a servant were not very labo- 
rious, but I felt humiliated and heart-broken. 

"Sonora was then almost one great gambling- 
hell. Almost everybody gambled. The dealers 
of the games were mostly women. The largest 
gambling-hell in the city belonged to an old man, 
one of its most influential citizens. I was surprised 
when he came to me one day and proposed to 
employ me as a monte-dealer. I shrank from the 
proposal. He offered me large wages, and prom- 
ised to protect me as his own daughter. At last I 
yielded, and was soon regularly dealing cards at a 
monte-table. My employer was delighted with the 
result. Crowds were gathered nightly round the 
table at which I presided. I was utterly misera- 
ble. I loathed the very sight of the money I made 
so rapidly. Many fearful scenes did I witness in 
that gambling-hell — men shot dead over the table 
at which I sat, young men stripped of their last 
dollar, rushing out desperate, ready for robbery or 
suicide, old men cursing their luck with clenched 
hands, and tearing their gray hairs in frenzy — it is 
horrible to think of it! 



yl Woman of the Earhj Days. 37 

"It was here that I met Frank B . He was 

a gambler of the more gentlemanly sort, and I 
met him frequently. I was constantly exposed to 
insults from the drunken and half-drunken men 
who frequented the place. One night a burly ruf- 
fian was more grossly insulting than was usual. 

Frank B was standing near, and quick as 

thought felled him to the floor with a heavy blow 
of a loaded cane which he always carried. The 
desperado rose to his feet furious with rage, and 
drawing a Bowie-knife rushed upon Frank, but he 
was seized, disarmed, and thrust out into the street, 
after rough handling by a dozen strong men. 

" Not long after this occurrence, Frank proposed 
to marry me. I already knew that I loved him, 
but I told him that I was a married woman, and 
could not listen to him. Steps were taken to pro- 
cure a divorce. By his advice I left the gambling- 
hell, and was full of joy at my release. 

" Pending the proceedings for divorce, I went to 
San Francisco, where I passed through temptations 
and troubles of a very painful character, but which 
I would forever forget if I could. At length, the 
divorce having been effected, I returned to Sonora, 
where I have lived until now. It seems as if a dark 
and troubled dream- had passed away, and I had 
awoke to a bright and happy morning." 

After their marriage, they seemed to be perfectly 



38 A Woman of the Early Days. 

happy. No two individuals ever seemed to be more 
evidently designed by nature for each other. I 

learned that Frank. B had been respectably 

bred and liberally educated. Since coming to Cal- 
ifornia he had at one time amassed a large fortune, 
but had lost it by indulging his passion for gam- 
bling. From being their victim, he had now be- 
come the associate and confederate of the gam- 
bling fraternity. But he was disgusted with the 
life he was leading, and told me that he intended 
to abandon it. 

"Good news!" said she to me one day as I en- 
tered the cottage. " Good news ! Frank has got 
a deputyship in one of the county offices, and will 
change his life." 

•Tears of joy were in her eyes as she told me, and 
my congratulations were most hearty. In a few 
days he entered upon his new employment Avith a 
hopeful and happy heart. When I met him in the 
streets he seemed to walk more erect, and his eye 
met mine with a more manly and independent 
expression. Handsome before, now he looked 
noble. 

Only a few weeks had elapsed when, having vis- 
ited a town some twelve miles distant, he was seized 
with a fever and was brought home in a state of 
delirium. His wife had a presentiment from the 
first that the attack would be fatal. He seemed to 



A Women of the Earhj Bays. 39 

have a similar feeling. In Lis lucid intervals he 
spoke to her with a mourn fill tenderness of their 
approaching separation. In little more than a 
week he died, and a great concourse of men and a 
fcAV women gathered on the hill to see him buried. 

The blow was a terrible one to her. Her grief 
was so wild and fearful that even feminine criti- 
cism was awed into silence or melted into sympa- 
thy. Frank's sudden death, and his wife's anguish, 
broke down the barriers which had previously lim- 
ited her social life, and she was made to feel the 
throb of the sympathetic heart of the place. Con- 
ventionalities were swept away by the breath of sor- 
row. The only women who held aloof from the 
mourner were those who had a painful conscious- 
ness that their own social standing was somewhat 
equivocal. 

I visited her, and sought to point her to the Source 
of true consolation. She interrupted me by demand- 
ing fiercely — her eyes fairly blazing — 

"Do you think my husband is .in heaven?" 

Not giving me time to answer, she continued in 
a defiant tone, walking the floor as she spoke, her 
long hair disheveled, and her hands clasped — 

" Do n't speak to me of religion, unless you can 
tell me he is happy! If he is not saved, I do not 
wish to be! Where he is— no higher, no loiver — is 
my heaven!" 



40 A Woman of the Early Days. 

She fought a hard battle with poverty and temp- 
tation in the mines, drifted down to San Francisco, 
still looking young and beautiful, and — shall I spoil 
a romance by telling it ? — married a rich man, and 
is living in luxury. But I choose to believe all the 

heart she had to give was buried in Frank B 's 

grave on the hill above Sonora. 




LOST 0:^r TABLE MOUjSTTAIN. 



}] njl rABLE Mountain is a geological curiosity. 
l(:li -'^*^^^*'^ puzzled the scientists, excited the won- 
y^^ der of the vulgar, and aroused the cupidity 
of the gold-hunter. It is a river without water, a 
river without banks, a river whose bed is hundreds 
of feet in the air. Rising in Calaveras county, it 
runs southward more than a hundred miles, wind- 
ing gracefully in its course, and passing through 
what was one of the richest gold-belts in the world. 
But now the bustling camps are stilJ, the thousands 
w^ho delved the earth for the shining ore are gene, 
the very houses have disappeared. The scarred 
bosom of Mother Earth alone tells of the intensely 
passionate life that once thiT)bbed among these 
rocky hills. A deserted mining-camp is in more 
senses than one like a battle-field. Both leave the 
same tragic impression upon the mind. 

What is now Table Mountain was manv an-es ajro 
a river flowing from the foot of the Sierras into the 

(41) 



42 Lost on Tabic 3Iountain. 

San Joaquin Valley. A volcano at its head dis- 
charged its lava into it, and it slowly rolled down 
its bed, and cooling, left the hard volcanic matter 
to resist the action of the elements by Avhich the 
surrounding country was worn away, until it was 
left high in the air, a 2:)henomenon to exercise the 
wits of the learned, and a delight to the lover of 
the curious in Nature. 

I can modestly claim the honor of having preached 
the first sermon on the south side of Table Mount- 
ain, where Mormon Creek was tlirono:ed with min- 
ers, who filled Davy Jamison's dining-room to attend 
religious service on Wednesday nights. It was a 
big day for us all when we dedicated a board-house 
to the worship of God and the instruction of youth. 
It was both church and school-house. I have still 
a very vivid remembrance of that occasion. My 
audience was composed of the gold-diggers on the 
creek, with half a dozen women and nearly as many 
babies, who insisted on being heard as well as the 
preacher. I "kept the floor" until two long, lean 
yellow dogs had a disagreement, showed their teeth, 
erected their bristles, sidled up closer and closer, 
growling, until they suddenly flew at each other 
like tigers, and fought all over the house. My plan 
was not to notice the dogs, and so elevating my 
voice, I kept on speaking. The dogs snapped and 
bit fearfully, the women screamed, the children 



[jost on Table Mountain. 43 

became frantic, stifFeiiiiig tliemsclves and turning 
purple in the face ; a bushy-whiskered man with a 
red head kicked the dogs from him with loud impre- 
cations, while Davy Jamison used a long broom 
upon them with great energy, but with unsatisfac- 
tory result. Those yellow dogs were mad, and 
did n't care for kicks or brooms. They stuck to 
each other, and fought over and under the benches, 
and along the aisle, and under my table, and every- 
Avhere! I did not keep on — I had changed my 
mind, or rather had lost it, and found myself stand- 
ing bewildered and silent, the thread of my dis- 
course gone. A good-humored miner winked at 
me in a way that said, " They were too much for 
you." The dogs w^re finally ejected. The last I 
saw of them they were rolling down the hill, still 
fighting savagely. I resumed my discourse, and 
finished amid a steady but subdued a-a-a-a-a-h ! of 
the quartette of babies. It is astonishing how long 
a delicate baby can keep up this sort of crying, and 
never get hoarse. 

There were such strong signs of a storm one 
Wednesday afternoon, that I almost abandoned the 
idea of filling my appointment on Mormon Creek. 
The clouds were boiling up around the crests of 
the mountains, and the wind blew in heavy gusts. 
But, mounting the famous iron-gTay pacing pony, I 
felt equal to any emergency, and at a rapid gait 



44 Lost on Table Mountain. 

climbed the great hill dividing Sonora from Shaw's 
Flat, and passing a gap in Table Mountain, was soon 
dashing along the creek, facing a liigh wind, and 
exhilarated by the exercise. My miners were out 
in force, and I was glad I had not disappointed 
them. It is best in such doubtful cases to go. 

By the time the service was over, the weather 
was still more portentous. The heavens were cov- 
ered with thick clouds, and the wind had risen to 
a gale. 

" You can never find your way home such a night 
as this," said a friendly miner. "You can't see 
your hand before you." 

It was true — the darkness was so dense that not 
the faintest outline of my hand was visible an inch 
from my face. But I had confidence in the lively 
gray pony, and resolved to go home, having left 
the mistress of the parsonage alone in the little 
cabin which stood unfenced on the hill-side, and 
unprotected by lock or key to the doors. Mount- 
ing, I touched the pony gently with the whip, and 
he struck off* at a lively pace up the road which led 
along the creek. I had confidence in the pony, 
and the pony seemed to have confidence in me. It 
was riding by faith, not by sight ; I could not see 
even the irony's neck — the darkness was complete. 
I always feel a peculiar elation on horseback, and 
delighted with the rapid speed we were making, I 



Lost on Table Mountain. 45 

was congratulating myself that I would not be long 
in getting home, when — horror! I felt that horse 
and rider were falling through the air. The pony 
had blindly paced right over the embankment, no 
more able to see than I was. Quick as thought I 
drew my feet out of the stirrups, and went head- 
long over the horse's head. Striking on my hands 
and knees, I Avas stunned at first, but soon found 
that beyond a few bruises and scratches I was not 
much hurt, though my watch was shattered. Get- 
ting on my feet, I listened for the pony, but in vain. 
Nothing could be heard or seen. Groping around 
a little, I stumbled into the creek. Erebus could 
not be darker than was that night. Having no 
notion of the j)oints of the compass, I knew not 
which way to move. Long and loud I called for 
help, and at length, when I had almost exhausted 
myself, an answer came through the darkness, 
and soon a party appeared with a lantern. They 
found me on the edge of the creek, and the pony 
about midway down the embankment, where he 
had lodged in his fall, bracing himself with his fore 
feet, afraid to move. With great difficulty the poor 
beast, which was trembling in every limb with 
fright, was rescued from his perilous and uncom- 
fortable position, and the wdiole party marched 
back to Jamison's. The pony was lamed in the fore 
shoulder, and my hands and knees were bleeding. 



46 Lod on Tabic Mountain. 

Taking a small haiid-laiitern with half a caudle, 
and au umbrella, I started for Souora on foot, leav- 
ing the i^ony in the corral. The rain began to fall 
just as I began to ascend the trail leading up the 
mountain, and the wind howled fearfully. A par- 
ticularly heavy gust caught my umbrella at a dis- 
advantage and tore it into shreds, and I threw it 
away and manfully took the rain which now poured 
in torrents, mingled with hail. Saturated as I was, 
the exercise ke23t me warm. My chief anxiety was 
to prevent my candle from being put out by the 
wind, of which the risk seemed great. But I pro- 
tected my lantern wdth the skirt of my coat, while 
I watched carefully for the narrow trail. Wind- 
ing around the ascent, jumping the mining ditches, 
and dripping with the rain, I reached the crossing of 
Table Mountain, and began picking my way among 
the -huge lava-blocks on the summit. The storm 
struck me here unobstructed, and it seemed as if I 
would be actually blown away. The storm-king 
of the Sierras was on a big frolic that night ! I 
soon lost the narrow trail. My piece of candle was 
burning low — if it should go out ! A text came 
into my mind from which I preached the next Sun- 
day : " Walk while ye have the light.'' It was strange 
that the whole structure of the discourse shaped 
itself in my mind while stumbling among those 
rugged lava-blocks, and pelted by the storm which 



Lost on Tabic llountain. 47 

seemed every moment to rage more furiously. I 
kept groping for the lost trail, shivering now Avith 
cold, and the candle getting very low in my lan- 
tern. I was lost, and it was a bad night to be lost 
in. The wind seemed to have a mocking sound as 
it shrieked in my ears, and as it died away in a 
temporary lull it sounded like a dirge. I began to 
think it would have been better for me to have 
taken the advice of my jNIormon Creek friends and 
waited until morning. All the time I kept mov- 
ing, though aimlessly. Thank God, here is the 
trail! I came upon it again just where it left the 
mountain and crossed the Jamestown road, recog- 
nizing the place by a gap in a brush fence. I started 
forward at a quickened pace, following the trail 
among the manzanita bushes, and wijiding among 
the hills. A tree had fallen across the trail at one 
point, and in going round it I lost the little thread 
of pathway and could not find it again. The earth 
was flooded with water, and one spot looked just 
like another. Holding my lantern near the ground, 
I scanned keenly every foot of ground as I made a 
circle in search of the lost trail, but soon found I 
had no idea of the points of the compass — in a 
Avord, I was lost again. The storm was unabated. 
It was rough work stumbling over the rocks and 
pushing my way through the thick manzanita 
bushes, bruising my limbs and scratching my face. 



48 Lost on Table Mountam. 

Almost exhausted, I sat down on the lee side of a 
large pine-tree, thinking I would thus wait for day- 
light. But the next moment the thought occurred 
to me that if I sat there much longer I would never 
leave alive, for I was getting very cold, and would 
freeze before morning. I thought it was time to 
pray, and I prayed. A strange, sweet calm came 
over me, and rising, I resumed my search for the 
lost trail. In five minutes I found it, and follow- 
ing it, I soon came in sight of a light which issued 
from a cabin, at the door of which I knocked. At 
first there was no answer, and I repeated the thumps 
on the door with more energy. I heard whispering 
inside, a step across the floor, then the latch was 
drawn, and as the door was partially opened a 
gruflf voice said — 

" Who are you ? and what do you want here at 
this time o' night?" 

"Let me in out of the storm, and I will tell you," 
I said. 

" Not so fast, stranger — robbers are mighty plenty 
and sassy round here, and you do n't come in 'til 
we know who you are," said the voice. 

I told them who I Avas, where I had been, and all 
about it. The door was opened cautiously, and I 
walked in. A coarse, frowzy-looking woman sat in 
the corner by the fire-place, a rough-looking man 
sat in the opposite corner, while the fellow who had 



Lost on Tabic Mountain. 49 

let me iu took a seat ou a bencli in front. I stood 
dripping, and ready to sink from fatigue, but no 
seat was offered me. 

" This is a pretty rougli night," said one of the 
men, complacently ; " but it 's nothing to the night 
we had the storm on the plains, when our wagon- 
covers was blowed off, and the cattle stampeded, 
and"— 

"Stop!" said I, "your troubles are over, and 
mine are not. I want you to give me a piece of 
candle for my lantern here, and tell me the way to 
Sonora." 

The fact is, I was disgusted at their want of hos- 
pitality, and too tired to be polite. It is vain to 
expect much politeness from a man who is very 
tired or very hungry. Most wives find this out, 
but I mention it for the sake of the young and 
inexperienced. 

After considerable delay, the frowzy woman got 
up, found a candle, cut off about three inches, and 
sulkily handed it to me. Lighting and placing it 
in my lantern, I made for the door, receiving these 
directions as I did so : 

" Go back the way you came about two hundred 
yards, then take a left-hand trail, which will carry 
you to Sonora by way of Dragoon Gulch." 

Plunging into the storm again, I found the trail 
as directed, and went forward. The rain poured 
4 



50 Lost on Tabic 31ountain. 

down as if the bottom of the heavens had fallen 
out, and the earth was a sea, the water coming 
above my gaiters at every step, and the wind almost 
lifting me from my feet. I soon found that it was 
impossible to distinguish the trail, and trusting to 
my instinct I pressed on in the direction of Sonora, 
which could scarcely be more than a mile away. 
Seeing a light in the distance, I bent my steps 
toward it. In mv ea2;erness to reach it I came 
very near walking into a deep mining shaft — a sin- 
gle step more, and this sketch would never have 
been written. IMaking my way among huge bowl- 
ders and mining pits, I reached the house in which 
was the light I had followed. Knocking at the 
door, a cheerful voice said, " Come in." Pushing 
open the door, I entered, and found that I was in a 
drinkihg-saloon. Several men were seated around 
a table playing cards, with money piled before 
them, and glasses of strong drink within reach. 
A red-faced, corpulent, and good-natured Dutch- 
man stood behind the bar, and was in the act of mix- 
ing some stimulilnt with the flourish of an expert. 

" Where am I ? " I asked, thoroughly bewildered, 
and not recognizing the place or the persons before 
me. 

"Dis is de Shaw's Flat Lager-beer Saloon," said 
the Dutchman. 

So this was not Sonora: after losing the trail I 



Lost on Table Jlountain. 51 

had lost my course, and gone away off north of my 
intended destination. Tlie men knew me, and were 
very polite. The kind-hearted Dutchman offered 
me alcoholic refreshment, which I politely declined, 
placed a whole candle in my lantern, and gave me 
many good wishes as I again took the road and 
faced the storm. Gambling is a terrible vice, but 
it was a good thing for me that the card-players 
lingered so long at their sport that rough night. 
Taking the middle of the road, I struck a good 
pace, and meeting Avith no farther mishap except 
a fall and tumble in the red mud as I was descend- 
ing the high hill that separated the two camps, 
about two o'clock in the morning I came in sight 
of the parsonage, and saw an anxious face at the 
door looking out into the darkness. 

After a sound sleep, I rose next day a little 
bruised and stiff, but otherAvise none the worse for 
being lost on Table Mountain. The gallant gray 
pony did not escape so well ; he never did get over 
his lameness. 



FULTO]^. 



Hf fE was a singular compound — hero, liypo- 
[t chondriac, and saint. 

He came aboard the Antelope as we (wife 
and I) were on our way to the Annual Conference 
at Sacramento, in 1855. Coming into our state- 
room, he introduced himself as "Brother Fulton." 
A thin, pale-faced man, with weak blue eyes, and 
that peculiar look which belongs to the real as- 
cetic, he looked out of place among that motley 
throng. 

" I am glad to see you, and hope you will live 
holy and be useful in California," he said. 

"As this is the first time we have ever met," he 
continued, " let us have a word of prayer, that all 
our intercourse may be sanctified to our mutual 
good." 

Down he kneeled among the trunks, valises, and 
bandboxes in the little state-room (and we with 
him, though it was tight squeezing amid the bag- 

(52) 



Fulton. . 53 

gage), and j^rayed long and fervently, with many 
groans and sighs. 

Kising at length from our knees, we entered into 
conversation. After a few inquiries and answers, 
he said — 

" It is very difficult to maintain a spiritual frame 
of mind among all these people. Let us have an- 
other word of prayer." 

Down he went again on his knees, w^e following, 
and he wrestled long and earnestly in supplication, 
oblivious of the peculiarities of the situation. 

Conversation was resumed on rising, confined 
exclusively to religious topics. A few minutes had 
thus been spent, when he said — • 

" We are on our way to the Annual Conference, 
where we shall be engaged in looking after the in- 
terests of the Church. Let us have another word 
of prayer, that we may be prepared for these duties, 
and that the session may be profitable to all." 

Again he knelt upon his knees and prayed with 
great fervor. 

When we rose there was a look of inquiry in the 
eyes of my fellow-missionary, which seemed to ask, 
AVhere is this to end? 

Just then the dinner-bell rang, and we had no 
opportunity for farther devotions with Brother Ful- 
ton just then. 

It was observed during the Conference session 



64 Fidtoiu 

that there Avas a cioud in Fultou's sky — he sat 
silent and gloomy, taking no part in the proceed- 
ings. About the third morning, while some impor- 
tant measure was pending, he rose and addressed 
Bishop Andrew, who was in the chair — 

"Bishop, I am in great mental distress; you will 
excuse me for interrupting the business of the Con- 
ference, but I can bear it no longer." 

"What's the matter, Brother Fulton?" asked 
that bluff, wise old prelate. 

"I am afraid I have sinned," was the answer, 
with bowed head and faltering voice. 

"In what way?" asked the Bishop. 

" I will explain : On my way from the mount- 
ains I became very hungry in the stage-coach. I 
am afraid I thought too much of my food. You 
know, Bishop, that if we fix our affections for one 
moment on any creature more than on God, it is 
sin." 

"Well, Brother Fulton," said the Bishop, "if at 
your hungriest moment the alternative had been 
presented whether you should give up your God or 
your dinner, would you have hesitated ? " 

" No, sir," said Brother Fulton meekly, after a 
short pause. 

" Well, then, my dear brother, the case is clear, 
you have done no wrong," said the Bishop in his 
hearty, off-hand way. 



Fulton. 55 

The effect was magical. Fulton stood thought- 
ful a moment, and then, as he sat down, burst mto 
tears of joy. Poor, morbidly-sensitive soul 1 we may 
smile at such scruples, so foreign to the temper of 
these after-times, but they were the scruples of a 
soul as true and as unworldly as that of a Kempis. 

He was sent to the mines, and he was a wonder 
to those nomadic dwellers about Vallecito, Doug- 
lass's Flat, Murphy's Camp, and Lancha Plana. 
They were puzzled to determine whether he was a 
lunatic or a saint. Many stories of his eccentrici- 
ties were afloat, and he was regarded with a sort of 
mingled curiosity and awe. It was but seldom that 
even the roughest fellows Avould utter profane lan- 
guage in his presence, and when they did, they 
received a rebuke that made them ashamed. Be- 
fore the year was out he had won every heart by 
the power of simple truthfulness, courage, and good- 
ness. The man who insulted, or in any way mis- 
treated him, would have lost caste with those wild 
adventurers who, ^viih all their grievous faults, 
never failed to recognize sincerity and pluck. Ful- 
ton's sincerity was unmistakable, and he feared not 
the face of man. He made converts among them, 
too. Many a profane lip became familiar with the 
language of prayer in those mining camps where 
the devil was so terribly regnant, and took no pains 
to hide his cloven foot. 



56 Fulton. 

One of Fulton's eccGntricities caused a tedious 
trial to an old hen belonging to a good sister at 
Vallecito. He was a dyspeptic — too great abste- 
miousness the cause. His diet was tea, crackers, 
and boiled eggs. Being a rigid Sabbath-keeper, he 
would eat nothing cooked on Sunday. So his eggs 
were boiled on Saturday, and warmed over for his 
Sunday meals. About the time of one of his visits 
to Vallecito, the sister referred to had occasion to 
set a hen. The period of incubation was singularly 
protracted, running far into the summer. The 
eggs would not hatch. Investigation finally dis- 
closed the fact that by somebody's blunder the 
boiled eggs had been placed under the unfortunate 
fowl,. whose perseverance failed of its due rcAvard. 
" Bless me ! " said the good-natured sister, laughing, 
" these were Brother Fulton's eggs. I wonder if 
he ate the raw ones?" 

Fulton had his stated times for private devotion, 
and allowed nothing to stand in the way. The 
hour of twelve was one of these seasons sacred to 
prayer. One day he was ascending a mountain, 
leading his horse, and assisting a teamster by 
scotching the wheels of his heavy wagon wdien 
his horses stopped to get breath. When about 
half way up, Fulton's large, old-fashioned silver 
watch told him it was twelve. Instantly lie called 
out — 



Fulton. hi 

" My hour for prayer has arrived, and I must 
stop and pray." 

"Wait 'til we get to the top of the mountain, 
■won't you ? " exclaimed the teamster. 

" No," said Fulton, " I never allow any thing to 
interfere with my secret prayers." 

And down he kneeled by the roadside, bridle in 
hand, and with closed eyes he was soon wrapt in 
devotion. 

The teamster expressed his view of the situation 
in language not exactly congruous to the exercise 
in which his fellow-traveler was engaged. But he 
waited until the prayer was ended, and then with 
a serene face Fulton resumed his service as scotcher, 
and the summit was reached in triumph. 

While on the San Ramon Circuit, in Contra 
Costa county, he met a man with a drove of hogs 
in a narrow, muddy lane. The swine took fright, 
and despite the frantic efforts of their driver, they 
turned, bolted by him, and rushed back the way 
whence they had come. The swine-herd was furi- 
ous with rage, and let loose upon Fulton a volley 
of oaths and threats. Fulton paused, looked upon 
the angry felloAV calmly for a few moments, and 
then dismounted, and kneeling by the roadside, 
began to pray for the man whose profanity was 
filling the air. The fellow was confounded at the 
Bight of that ghostly-looking man on his knees 



58 



Fulton. 



before him ; lie took a panic, and turning back, he 
followed his hogs in rapid flight. The sequel must 
be given. The fleeing swine-herd became one of 
Fulton's converts, dating his religious concern from 
the prayer in the lane. 

Fulton itinerated in this way for years, fasting 
rigidly and praying incessantly, some thinking him 
a lunatic, others reverencing him as a saint. Thin- 
ner and thinner did he grow, his pallid face becom- 
ing almost transparent. Thinking its mild climate 
might benefit his health, he was sent to Southern 
California. One morning, on entering his room, 
he was found kneeling by his bedside dead, with 
his Bible open before him, and a smile on his face. 




BLIGHTED. 




lC m. ALCOHOL and opium were his masters. 
Si alternated in their use. 



He 

Only a brain of 
<s;?i>;?'?^ extraordinary strength, and nerves of steel, 
could have stood the strain. He had a large prac- 
tice at the Bonora bar, was a popular politician, 
made telling stump speeches, and wrote pungent 
and witty editorials for the Union Democrat, con- 
ducted by that most genial and unselfish of party 
pack-horses, A. N. Francisco. He was a fine schol- 
ar, and so thoroughly a gentleman in his instincts 
that even when drunk he was not vulgar or obscene. 
Cynicism and waggery were mingled in his nature, 
but he was more cynic than wag. An accidental 
meeting under pleasant circumstances, and agree- 
ment in opinion concerning certain current issues 
that were exciting the country, developed a sort of 
friendship between us. He affected skepticism, and 
was always ready to give a thrust at the clergy. 
It sometimes happened that a partv of the wild 

(59) 



60 Blighted. 

blades of the 23lace -would come in a body to my lit- 
tle church on the hill-side, to hear such a discourse 
as my immaturity could furnish, but he was never 
among them. All he seemed to want from the 
community in which he lived was something to 
sneer or laugh at, and the means wherewith to 
procure the narcotics with which he was destroying 
his body and brain. As we met oftener, I became 
interested in him more and more. Looking at his 
splendid head and handsome face, it was impossi- 
ble not to admire him and think of the possibilities 
of his life could he be freed from his vices. He 
was still under thirty. But he was a drunkard. 

He was shy of all allusions to himself, and I do 
not know how it was that he came to open his mind 
to me so freely as he did one morning. I found 
him alone in his office. He was sober and sad, and 
in a different mood from any in which I had ever 
before met him. Our conversation touched upon 
many tojjics, for he seemed disposed to talk. 

"How slight a circumstance," I remarked, "will 
sometimes give coloring to our whole character, 
and affect all our after-life ! " 

"Yes," he answered, "bitterly do I realize the 
truth of your remark. When I was in my four- 
teenth year an incident occurred which has influ- 
enced all my subsequent life. I was always a favor- 
ite with my school-teachers, and I loved them with 



Mighted. 61 

a hearty boyisL affection. Especially did I enter- 
tain a most affectionate reverence for the kind old 
man Avho presided over the boys' academy in my 
native town in Massachusetts. He became my 
instructor when I was ten years old, and I was his 
favorite pupil. With a natural aptness for study, 
my desire to win his approbation stimulated me to 
make exertions that ahvays kept me at the head of 
my class, and I was frequently held up to the other 
pupils as an example of good behavior. I was 
proud of his good opinion, and sought to deserve 
it. Stimulated both by ambition and affection, 
nothing seemed too difficult for me. The three 
years I was under his tuition were the best em- 
ployed and happiest of my life. But my kind old 
preceptor died. The whole town was plunged in 
deep sorrow for his loss, and my boyish grief was 
bitter." 

Here he paused a few moments, and then went 
on: — 

"Soon a new teacher took his place. He was 
unlike the one we had lost. He was a younger 
man, and he lacked the gentleness and dignity of 
his predecessor. But I was prepared to give him 
my confidence and affection, for then I had learned 
nothing else. I sought to gain his favor, and was 
diligent in study and careful of my behavior. For 
several days all went on smoothly. A rule of the 



62 Bl'ujhtcd. 

school forbade whispering. One day a boy sitting 
just behind me whispered my name. Involunta- 
rily, I half inclined my head toward him, when the 
new teacher called to me angrily — 

" ' Come here, sir ! ' 

" I obeyed. Grasping me tightly by the collar, 
he said : 

" ' How dare you whisper in school ? ' 

"I told him I had not whispered. 'Hearing my 
name called, I only turned to ' — 

" ' Do n't dare to tell me a lie ! ' he thundered, 
lifting me from the floor as he spoke, and tripping 
my feet from under me, causing me to fall vio- 
lently, my head striking first. 

" I was stunned by the fall, but soon rose to my 
feet, bruised and bewildered, yet burning with in- 
dio;nation. 

"'Take your seat, sir!' said he — enforcing the 
command by several sharp strokes of the rod — ' and 
be careful in future how you lie to me ! ' 

"I walked slowly to my seat. A demon had 
entered my soul. For the first time I had learned 
to hate. I hated that man from that hour, and I 
hate him still ! He still lives, and if I ever meet 
him, I will be even with him yet!" 

He had unconsciously risen from his seat, while 
his eyes flashed, and his face was distorted with 
passion. After a few moments, he continued : 



Blighted. 63 

"This affair produced a complete change in my 
conduct and character. I hated my teacher. I 
looked upon him as an enemy, and treated him 
accordingly. Losing all relish for study, from 
being at the head I dropped to the foot of my class. 
Instead of seeking to merit a name for good behav- 
ior, my only ambition was to annoy the tyrant 
placed over me. He treated me harshly, and I 
suffered severely. He beat me constantly and 
cruelly. Under these influences my nature hard- 
ened rapidly. I received no sympathy except from 
my mother, and she did not understand my posi- 
tion. I felt that she loved me, though she evi- 
dently thought I must be in the wrong. My father 
laid all the blame on me, and, with a stern sense of 
justice, refused to interfere in my behalf. At last 
I began to look upon him as the accomplice of my 
persecutor, and almost hated him too. I became 
suspicious and misanthropic. I loved no one but 
my mother, and souglit the love of no other. Thus 
passed several years. My time was wasted, and 
my nature perverted. I was sent to college, for 
which I w^as but poorly prepared. Here a new life 
begun. My effort to rise above the influences that 
had been so hurtful to me failed. My college 
career soon terminated. I could not shake off the 
eflects of the early injustice and mismanagement of 
which I was the victim. I came to California in a 



G4 



Blighted. 



reckless spirit, and am now mortgaged to the devil. 
What I might have been under other circum- 
stances, I know not ; but I do know that the best 
elements of my nature were crushed out of me by 
the infernal tyrant who was my teacher, and that I 
owe him a debt I would be glad to pay." 

He spoke truly. The mortgage was duly fore- 
closed. He died of delirium tremens. A single act 
of injustice sowed the seeds of bitterness that 
marred the hopes of a whole life. The moral of 
this sketch is commended to teachers and parents. 



STRANDED. 



''f iMff^^^ as the sun was going down, after one 
wll ^^ *^^® hottest days of the summer of 1855, 
B while we were seated in the rude piazza of 
the parsonage in Sonora, enjoying the coolness of 
the evening breeze, a man in his shirt sleeves came 
up, and in a hurried tone inquired — 
" Does the preacher live here ? " 
Getting an affirmative answer, he said — 
" There is a very sick man at the hosj^ital Avho 
wishes to see the Southern Methodist preacher im- 
mediately." 

I at once obeyed the summons. On reaching 
the hospital, my conductor said — 

"You will find him in there," pointing to one of 
the rooms. 

On entering, I found four patients in the room, 
three of whom were young men, variously aflected 
with chronic diseases — rough-looking fellows, show- 
ing plainly in their sensual faces the insignia of 
5 " i^^o) 



66 Stranded. 

vice. The fourth was a man perhaps fifty years 
old. As he lay there in the light of the setting 
sun, I thought I had never beheld a more ghastly 
object. The death-like pallor, the pinched features, 
the unnatural gleam of his eyes in their sunken 
sockets, telling of days of pain, and nights without 
sleep — all told me this w^as the man by whom I had 
been sent for. 

"Are you the preacher?" he asked in a feeble 
voice, as I approached the bedside. 

" Yes ; I am the preacher. Can I do any thing 
for you?" 

"I am glad you have come — I was afraid I 
would not get to see you. Take a seat on that 
stool — the accommodations are rather poor here." 

He paused to recover breath, and then went on : 

" I w^ant you to pray for me. I was once a mem- 
ber of the Methodist Church, in Georgia ; but O sir, 
I have been a bad man in California — a wicked, 
wicked wretch! I have a family in Georgia — a 
dear wife and " — 

Here he broke down again. 

"I had hoped to see them once more, but the 
doctors say I must die, and I feel that I am sink- 
ing. ISTo tongue could tell what I have suffered, 
but the worst of all is my shameful denial of 
my Saviour. AVhat a fool I have been, to think 
that I could prosper in sin ! Here I am, stranded. 



Stranded. 67 

wrecked, by my own folly. I have been here in 
the hospital two months, and have suffered in- 
tensely all the time. What a fool I have been ! 
Will you pray for me ? " 

After directing his attention to various passages 
of the Bible expressive of the infinite and tend^;r 
love of God toward the erring, I kneeled by his cot 
and prayed. His sighs and sobs gave indication 
of deep feeling, and when I arose from my knees 
the tears were running from his eyes, and his face 
wore a different expression. 

"Return unto me, and I will return unto you," 
he said, repeating the words which I had quoted 
from the word of God — "return unto me, and I 
will return unto you" — lingering upon the words 
with peculiar satisfaction. He seemed to have 
caught a great truth. 

I continued my visits to him for several weeks. 
He gave me the history of his life, which had bef-n 
one of vicissitude and adventure. He had been a 
soldier in the Seminole war in Florida, and he had 
much to say of alligators, and Indians, and Andrcsw 
Jackson. All the time his strength was failing, 
his eyes glittering more intensely. His bodily suf- 
ferings were frightful; the only sleep he obtained 
was by the use of oj^iates. But an extraordinary 
change had taken place in his mental state. To 
say that he was happy would be putting it too 



68 Stranded. 

tamely. There was some unseen Presence or Power 
that lifted his soul above his suffering body, making 
that lonely room all bright and peaceful. What 
it was, no true believer in the Saviour and lover 
of our souls will doubt. 

" There 's a great change in the old man," said 
the nurse one day ; " he does n't fret at all now." 

"0 1 have been so happy all night and all 
day ! " he said to me the last time I saw him. " I 
have only refrained from shouting for fear of dis- 
turbing these poor fellows, my sick room-mates. I 
have felt all day as if I could take them ^11 in my 
arms, and fly with them to the skies ! " And his 
face was radiant. 

The next morning he was found on the floor by 
his bedside — dead. He had died so quietly that 
none knew it. His papers were placed in my pos- 
session. In his well-worn pocket-book, among let- 
ters from his wife in Georgia, receipts, and private 
papers of various kinds, I found the following lines, 
which he had clipped from some newsj^aper, and 
which seemed tear-blotted : 

COME HOME, PAPA! 

[A little girVs thoughts about her absent father.) 

Come liome, papa! the shades of night 

Are gathering in the sky; 
The fire-fly sliines with fitful light, 

The stars ai-e out on high, 



Stranded. 69 

And twinkles bright tlie evening star: 
AVe have waited long — come home, papa! 

Come home ! the birds have gone to rest 

In many a forest tree ; 
AVitliin tliy quiet home, thy nest. 

Thy bird is waiting thee ; 
She softly sings, to cheer mamma, 
The Avhile she waits — come home, papa ! 

Come home ! A tear is glistening bright 

Within my mother's eye; 
Why stay away so late to-night 

From home, mamma, and I? 
"Alas!" ''alas!" her moanings are 
That thou canst not return, papa ! 

She says the white-sailed ship hath borne 

Thee far upon the sea, 
That many a night and many a morn 

Will pass nor bring us thee ; 
But bear thee from us swift and far, 
And thou mayst not come home, papa! 

I thought thou wouldst return when light 

Had faded on the sea: 
How can I fall asleep to-night 

Without a kiss from thee? 
Thy picture in my hand I hold, 
But O the lips are hard and cold ! 

Come home ! I 'm sad where'er I go, 

To find no father there : 
How can we live without thee so? 

I '11 say my evening prayer. 



70 Stranded. 

And ask tlie God who made each star, 
To bring me liome my dear papa ! 

ANSWERED. 

I '11 come! I '11 come! my darling one, 
Though long from thee I've tarried. 

For thee within my anxious breast 
The fondest love I 've carried 

Where'er I 've roamed o'er land or sea. 

Be not dismayed, I '11 come to thee. 

When evening shades around thee fall. 

And birds have gone to rest, 
O sing, thou sweetest bird of mine, 

Within thy lonely nest! 
Sing on! sing on! to cheer "mamma" 
"The while she waits" for thy "papa." 

O tell thy mother not to weep. 

But let her tears be dry. 
And ne'er for me to let them creep 

Into her cheerful eye ; 
For though I 've strayed from her afar, 
She soon shall welcome home "papa." 

Though "white-sailed ship" hath borne me far 

Across the restless sea — 
Though many nights and morns have passed 

Since last I dwelt with thee — 
Yet, lovely one, I tell thee true. 
But death can sever me from you. 

O lay that picture down, sweet child. 

And calmly rest in sleep. 
And for my absence long from thee 

I pray thee not to weep! 



Stranded. 



71 



I '11 come! I'll come again to thee, 
In "white-sailed ship" across the sea. 

But no "white-sailed ship" ever bore him to the 
loved ones across the sea. He sleeps on one of the 
red hills overlooking Sonora, awaiting the resur- 
rection. 

As these are not fancy sketches, but simple re- 
citals of actual California life, the lines above were 
copied as found ; the friendly reader therefore will 
not judge them with critical severity. 




LOCKLEY. 




[WpiE was eccentric, and he was lazy — very 
eccentric, and very lazy. The miners 

«=^ crowded his church on Sundays, and he 
moved around among them in a leisurely, familiar 
way, during the week, saying the quaintest things, 
eating their slap-jacks, and smoking their best ci- 
gars. He occupied a little frame house near the 
church in Columbia, then the richest mining camp 
in the world, in whose streets ten thousand miners 
lounged, ate, drank, gambled, quarreled, and fought 
every Lord's-day. That bachelor parsonage was 
unique in respect of the furniture it did not con- 
tain, and also in respect to the condition of that 
which it did contain. Lockley was not a neat 
house-keeper. I have said he was lazy. He knew 
the fact, accepted it, and gloried in it. On one 
occasion he invited four friends to supper. They 
all arrived at the hour. Lockley was stretched at 
full length on a lounge which would have been bet- 

(72) 



Locfdaj. 73 

ter for the attention of an upholsterer or washer- 
-woman. The friends looked at each other, and 
at their host. One of them spoke — 

" Lockley, where 's your supper?" 

" O it is n't cooked yet," he drawled out. 

" Parker," continued Lockley, " make a fire in 
that stove. Toman, you go up town and get some 
crackers, and oysters, and coffee, and a steak. 
Oxley, go after a bucket of water. . Porterfield, 
you hunt up the crockery, and set the table." 

His orders were obeyed by the amused guests, 
who entered into the spirit of the occasion with 
great good humor. Oyster cans were opened, the 
steak w^as duly sliced, seasoned, and broiled, the 
coffee was boiled, and in due time the supper was 
ready, and Lockley arose from the lounge and pre- 
sided at the table with perfect enjoyment. 

Two of these guests had a tragic history. Oxley 
and Parker were killed in Mexico, at the massacre 
of the Crabb party. Porterfield died in Stockton. 
Toman, I think, lives somewhere in Indiana. 

I saw one of Lockley's letters from Los Angeles, 
whither he had been sent by Bishop Andrew, in 
1855. It was as follows: 

Los Angeles, August, 1855. 

Dear Porterfield: — I have been here six months. There 
are three Protestant churches in the place. Their united 
congregations amount to ten persons. INIy receipts from 
collections during six months amount to ten doUai's. I 



74 Locldey. 

have been studying a great scientific question, namely, the 
location of the seat of hunger. Is it in the stomach, or in 
the brain? After consulting all the best authorities, and 
no little experience, I have concluded that it is migratory — ■ 
first in one, and then in the other ! Take care of my cats. 

LOCKLEY. 

I had a letter from him once. It was in reply 
to one from me asking him to remit the amount of 
a bill he owed for books. As it was brief, I print 

it entire : 

Mariposa, April, 1858. 
Dear Fitz: — Your dunning letter has been received and 
— placed on file. Yours, E. B. Lockley. 

The first time I ever heard him preach was at 
San Jose, during a special meeting. Poising him- 
self in his peculiar way, with an expression half 
comic, half serious, he began: "I have a notion, 
my friends, that in a gospel land every man has 
his own preacher — that is, for every man there is 
some one preacher, who, from similarity of temper- 
ament and mental constitution, is adapted to be 
the instrument of his salvation. Now," he con- 
tinued, " there may be some man in this audience 
so peculiar, so cranky, so much out of the common 
order, that I am his man. If so, may the Holy 
Spirit send the truth to his heart!" This remark 
riveted attention, and he held it to the close. 

Lazy as he was out of the pulpit, in it he was all 
energy and fire. He had read largely, had a good 



Lockley. 75 

memory, and put the quaintest conceits into the 
quaintest setting of fitting words. His favorite 
text was, "There remaineth a rest to the people 
of God." That was his idea of heaven — rest to 
"sit down" with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, in the 
Ivingdom of God. On this theme he was indeed 
eloquent. The rapturous songs, the waving palms, 
the sounding harjDS of the New Jerusalem, were not 
to his taste — what he wanted, and looked for, was 
rest, and all the images by which he described the 
felicity of the redeemed were drawn from that one 
thought. His idea of hell was antithetic to this. 
The terrible thought with him was, that there was 
no rest there. I heard him bring out this idea with 
awful power one Sunday morning at Linden, in 
San Joaquin county. " In this Avorld," said Lock- 
ley, "there is respite from every grief, every bur- 
den, every pain in the body. The mourner wee23S 
herself to sleep. The agony of pain sinks exhausted 
into slumber. Sleep, sweet sleep, brings surcease 
to all human griefs and j^ains in this life. But 
there will he no sleep in hell! The accusing con- 
science will hiss its reproaches into the ear of the 
lost, the memory will reproduce the crimes and fol- 
lies by which the soul was wrecked forever, the 
fires of retribution will burn on unintermittingly. 
One hour of sleep in a thousand years would be 
some mitigation — but the worm dieth not, the fire 



76 Lockley. 

is not quenched. God deliver me from a sleepless 
hell ! " he exclaimed, his swarthy face glowing, and 
his dark eye gleaming, his whole frame quivering 
with horror at the thought his mind had conceived. 
He Avas original in the pulpit, as everywhere 
else. At one time the preachers of the Pacific 
Conference seemed to have a sort of epidemic of 
preaching on a certain topic — The Choice of Moses. 
The elders preached it at the quarterly meetings, 
and it was carried around from circuit to circuit, 
and from station to station. There was not much 
variety in these sermons. They all bore a generic 
likeness to each other, indicating a common pater- 
nity, at least, for the outlines. The matter had 
become a subject of pleasant banter among the 
brethren. There was consequently some surprise, 
when at the session of the Annual Conference, 
Lockley announced for his text: "Moses chose 
rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, 
than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season." It 
was the old text, but it was a new sermon. The 
choice of Moses was, in his hands, a topic fresh and 
entertaining, as he threw upon it the flashes of his 
wit, and evoked from it suggestions that never 
would have occurred to another mind. "Mind 
you," he said at one j^oint, " Moses chose to suffer 
affliction with the people of God. I tell you, my 
brethren, the people of God are sometimes very 



Ijockley. 77 

aggravating. They fretted Moses almost to death. 
But did he forsake them? Did he leave them in 
the wilderness to perish in their foolishness? No 
— he stood by them to the last." His application 
of this peculiar exegesis to the audience of preach- 
ers and Church-members was so pointed that the 
ripple of amusement that swept over their faces 
gave way to an expression of seriousness that told 
that the shot had hit the mark. 

One warm day in 1858 he started out with me 
to make a canvass of the city of Stockton for the 
Church-paper. We kept in pretty brisk motion for 
an hour or two, Lockley giving an occasional sign 
of dissatisfaction at the unwonted activity into 
which he had been beguiled. Passing down Weber 
Avenue, on the shady side of a corner store he saw 
an empty chair, and with a sigh of relief he sank 
into it. 

"Come on, Lockley," said I; "we are not half 
done our work." 

" I sha'n't do it," he drawled. 

"AVhy not?"Iasked. 

"The Scripture is against it," he answered with 
great seriousness of tone. 

"How is that?" I asked with curiosity. 

" The Scripture says, ' Do thyself no harm,' " said 
he, " and it does me harm to walk as fast as you do. 
I sha'n't budge." 



78 Lockley. 

Nor did he. I spent two or three hours iu dif- 
ferent parts of the city, and on my return found 
him sitting in exactly the same attitude in which 
I had left him, a picture of perfect contentment. 
Literally, he had n't budged. 

While on the Santa Clara Circuit he drove a re- 
markable little sorrel mare named by him Ginsy. 
Ginsy was very small, very angular, with long fet- 
locks and mane a shade lighter than her other parts, 
a short tail that had a comic sort of twist to one 
side, and a lame eye. The buggy was in keepiug 
with Ginsy. It was battered and splintered, some 
of the spokes were new and some were old, the 
dash-board Avas a wreck, the wheels seesawed iu a 
curious way as it moved. And the harness! — it 
was too much for my powers. It was a conglom- 
erate harness, composed of leather, hay rope, frag- 
ments of suspenders, whip-cord, and rawhide. The 
vehicle announced its approach by an extraordi- 
nary creaking of all its unoiled axles, a sort of cal- 
liopean quartette that regaled the ears of the fat 
and happy genius Avho held the reins. Lockley, 
Ginsy, and that buggy, made a picture worth look- 
iug at. 

While Lockley was on this circuit the Annual 
Conference was held at San Jose. As Bishop Kav- 
anaugh was to preach on Sunday morning, it was 
expected that an overwhelming congregation would 



Lockley. 79 

crowd the San Jose church, that eloquent Kentuck- 
ian being a favorite with all classes in California. 
Lockley asked that a preacher be sent to fill the 
pulpit of his little church in the town of Santa 
Clara, three miles distant. The genial and zealous 
James Kelsay was sent. At eleven o'clock he and 
Lockley entered the church, and ascended the pul- 
pit. After kneeling a few moments in the usual 
w^ay, they seated themselves and faced the — not the 
audience, for none was there. Nobody had come. 
In a few minutes an old man came in and took a 
seat in the farthest corner from the pulpit. He 
eyed the two preachers, and they eyed him in 
silence. The minutes passed on. There they sat. 
As might have been expected, everybody had gone 
to hear the Bishop, in San Jose. That old man 
was the only person Avho entered the church. It 
was evident, however, that he had come to stay. 
He rigidly kept his place, never taking his eyes 
from the two preachers, who repaid him with an 
attention equally fixed. A pin might have been 
heard to droj) — not a sound was uttered as they 
thus sat and gazed at each other. An hour passed, 
and still they sat speechless. Lockley broke the 
silence. Turning to his companion in the pulpit, 
he said gravely — 

"Brother Kelsay, how shall we bring these solerm 
services to a close f'^ 



80 



Lockley. 



" Let us pray," said Kelsay. 

They kneeled, and Kelsay led in prayer, the old 
man keeping his place and sitting position. The 
benediction was then formally pronounced, and 
that service ended. 

His death was tragic and pitiful. A boy, stand- 
ing in the sunken channel of a dry creek, shot at 
a vicious dog on the bank above. The bullet, after 
striking and killing the dog, struck Lockley in the 
chest as he was approaching the spot. He stag- 
gered backward to a fence close at hand, fell on 
his knees, and died praying. 




FATHER COX. 



]UTHER cox was a physical and intel- 
V- lectiial phenomenon. He was of immense 
'^'^S^' gii'th, weighing more than three hundred 
pounds. His face was ruddy and almost as smooth 
as that of a child, his hair snow-white and fine as 
floss-silk, his eyes a deep blue, his features small. 
His great size, and the contrast between the infan- 
tile freshness of his skin and white hair, made him 
a notable man in the largest crowd. 

He was converted, and joined the Methodist 
Church, after he had passed his fiftieth year. He 
had been, as he himself phrased it, the keeper of a 
"doggery," and was no doubt a rough customer. 
Reaching California by way of Texas, he at once 
began to preach. His style took with the Califor- 
nians ; great crowds flocked to hear him, and mar- 
velous effects were produced. He was a fine judge 
of human nature, and knew the direct way to the 
popular heart. Under his preaching men wept, 
6 (81) 



82 Father Cox. 

prayed, repented, believed, and flocked into the 
Church by scores and hundreds. 

Father Cox was in his glory at a camp-meeting. 
To his gift of exhortation was added that of song. 
He had a voice like a flute in its softness and pu- 
rity of tone, and his solos before and after preach- 
ing melted and broke the hard heart of many a 
wild and reckless Californian. 

His sagacity and knowledge of human nature 
were exhibited at one of his camp-meetings held 
at Gilroy, in Santa Clara county. There was a 
great crowd and a great religious excitement, Fa- 
ther Cox riding its toj^most wave, the general of 
the army of Israel. Seated in the preachers' stand, 
he was leading in one of the spirited lyrics suited 
to the occasion, when a young man approached him 
and said — 

" Father Cox, there 's a friend of mine out here 
who wants you to come and pray for him." 

"Where is he?" 

"Just out there on the edge of the crowd," an- 
swered the young fellow. 

Father Cox followed him to the outskirts of the 
congregation, where he found a group of rougli- 
looking fellows standing around, with their leg- 
gings and huge Spanish spurs, in the center of 
which a man was seen kneeling, with his face buried 
between his hands. 



Father Cox. 83 

" There he is," said the guide. 

"Is he a friend of yours, gentlemen?" asked 
Father Cox, turning to the expectant group. 

" Yes," answered one of them. 

"And you want me to pray for him, do you ? " 
he continued. 

" We do," was the answer. 

"All right — all of you kneel down, and I '11 pray 
for him." 

They looked at one another in confusion, and 
then one by one they sheepishly kneeled until all 
were down. 

Father Cox then kneeled doAvn by the " mourner," 
and prayed as follows : 

" O Lord, thou knowTst all things. Thou know- 
est whether this man is a sincere penitent or not. 
If he is sincerely sorry for his sins, and is bowing 
before Thee W'ith a broken heart and a contrite 
spirit, have mercy upon him, hear his prayer, par- 
don his transgressions, give him Thy peace, and 
make him Thy child. But, O Lord, if he is not in 
earnest, if he is here as an emissary of Satan, to 
make mockery of sacred things, and to hinder Thy 
work, kill him — kill him. Lord " — 

At this point the "mourner" became frightened, 
and began to crawl, Father Cox following him on 
liis knees, and continuing his prayer. The terror- 
stricken sinner could stand it no longer, but sprang 



84 Father Cox. 

to liis feet, and bounded away at full speed, leaving 
Father Cox master of the field, while the kneeling 
roughs rose and sneaked off abashed and discom- 
fited. 

The sequel of this incident should be given. The 
mock penitent was taken into the Church by Father 
Cox soon after. He left the camp-ground in a state 
of great alarm on account of his sacrilegious frolic. 

"When the old man put his hand on me as I 
kneeled there in wicked sport, and prayed as he 
did, it seemed to me that I felt hot flashes from 
liell rise in my face," said he; "right there I be- 
came a true penitent." 

The man thus strangely converted became a 
faithful soldier of the cross. 

At a camp-meeting near the town of Sonoma, in 
1858, Father Cox, who Avas preacher in charge of 
that circuit, rose to exhort after the venerable 
Judge Shattuck had preached one of his strong, 
earnest sermons. The meeting had been going on 
several days, and the Sonoma sinners had hitherto 
resisted all appeals and persuasions. The crowd 
■was great, and every eye was fixed upon the old 
man as he began his exhortation. 

"Boys," he began, in a familiar, kijidly way, 
"boys, you are treating me badly. I have been 
with you all the year, and you have always had a 
kind word and a generous hand for the old mau. 



Father Cox. 85 

f love you, and I love your immortal souls. I have 
entreated you to turn away from your sins, to re- 
pent, and come to Christ and be saved. I have 
preached to you, I have prayed for you, I have 
wept over you. You harden your hearts, and 
stiffen your necks, and will not yield. You ivill be 
lost! You will go to hell! In the judgment-day 
you Avill be left w^ithout excuse. And boys," he 
continued, his mighty chest heaving, his voice quiv- 
ering, and the tears running down his cheeks, 
" l)oys, I will have to be a witness against you. I 
shall have to testify that I warned, persuaded, and 
entreated you in vain. I shall have to testify of 
the proceedings of this Sabbath night, and tell how 
you turned a deaf ear to the call of your Saviour. 
I shall have to hear your sentence of condemna- 
tion, and see you driven down to hell. My God I 
the thought is dreadful! Spare me this agony. 
Do n't, O do n't force this upon me ! Do n't com- 
pel the old man to be a witness against you in that 
awful day! Rather," he continued, "hear my 
voice of invitation to-night, and come to Christ, so 
that instead of being a witness against you in that 
day, I may be able to present you as my spiritual 
children, and say. Lord Jesus, here is the old man, 
and his Sonoma children, all saved, and all ready 
to join together in a glad hallelujah to the Lamb 
that was slain I " 



86 Father Cox, 

It was overwhelming. The pathos and power 
of the speaker were indescribable. There was a 
"break-down" all over the vast congregation, and 
a rush of penitents to the altar, as one of the stir- 
ring camj)-meeting choruses pealed forth from tlie 
full hearts of the faithful. 

Father Cox's ready wit was equal to any occa- 
sion. At a camp-meeting in the Bodega Hills, in 
"opening the doors of the Church," he said: 

"Many souls have been converted, and now I 
want them all to join the Church. When I was a 
boy, I learned that it was best to string my fish as 
I caught them, lest they should flutter back into 
the water. I want to string my fish — that is, take all 
the young converts into the Church, and put them to 
work for Christ, lest they go back into the world " — 

"You can't catch me!" loudly interrupted a 
rowdyish-looking fellow who sat on a slab near the 
rostrum. 

"I am not fishing for gar!" retorted Father Cox, 
casting a contemptuous glance at the fellow, and 
then Avent on with his work. 

The gar-fish is the abomination of all true fish- 
ermen — hard to catch, coarse-flavored, bony, and 
nearly worthless when caught. The vulgar fellow 
became the butt of the camp-ground, and soon 
mounted his mustang, and galloped oflj amid the 
derision even of his own sort. 



Father Cox. 87 

Father Cox had a naturally hot temper, which 
sometimes flamed forth in a way that was startling. 
It would have been a bold man who would have 
tested his physical proAvess in a combat. Beside 
him an ordinary-sized person looked like a pigmy. 
Near San Juan, in Monterey county, he had occa- 
sion to cross a swollen stream by means of the 
water-fence above the ford. The fence was flimsy, 
and Father Cox was heavy. The undertaking was 
not an easy one at best, and Father Cox's difiiculty 
and annoyance were enhanced by the ungenerous 
and violent abuse and curses of an infidel black- 
smith on the opposite side of the stream, who had 
W'orked himself into a rage because the immense 
weight of the old man had broken a rail or two of 
the fence. The situation w^as too critical for reply, 
as the mammoth preacher Cox "cooned" his way 
cautiously and painfully across the rickety bridge, 
at the imminent risk every moment of tumbling 
headlong into the roaring torrent below. Mean- 
while the wicked and angry blacksmith kept up a 
volley of oaths and insulting epithets. The old 
Adam \yas waking up in the old preacher. By the 
time he had reached the shore he was thoroughly 
mad, and rushing forward, he grasped his persecu- 
tor and shook him until his breath was nearly 
shaken out of him, saying — 

"O vou foul-mouthed villain! If it were not 



88 Father Cox. 

for the fear of mv God I would beat you into a 

jelly!" 

The blacksmith, a stalwart fellow, was aston- 
ished ; and when Father Cox let him go, he had a 
new view of the Church militant. This scene was 
witnessed by a number of bystanders, who did not 
fail to report it, and it made the old preacher a 
hero with the rough fellows of San Juan, who 
thenceforward flocked to hear his preaching as they 
did to hear nobody else. 

The image of Father Cox that is most vivid to 
my mind as I close this unpretentious sketch, is 
that which he presented as he stood in the pulpit 
at Stockton one night, during the Conference ses- 
sion, and sang, " I am going home to die no more," 
his ruddy face aglow, his blue eyes swimming in 
tears, his Avhite hair glistening in the lamp-light. 
He sleeps on the Bodega Hills, amid the oaks and 
madronas, whose branches Avave in the breezes of 
the blue Pacific. He has gone home to die no 
more. 




Al^ INTERVIEW. 




^._. , S I was coming oat of the San Francisco 
vi^vfe post-office one morning, in the year 185 — , 
=??5s>^;?s¥^ a tall, dark-skinned man placed himself in 
front of me, and fixing his intensely glittering eyes 
upon me, said in an excited tone — 

" Sir, can you give me a half hour of your time 
this morning?" 

"Yes," I replied, "if I can be of any service to 
you by so doing." 

"Not here, but in your office, privately," he con- 
tinued. "I must sj)eak to somebody, and having 
heard you preach in the church on Pine street, I 
felt that I could approach you. I am in great 
trouble and danger, and must speak to some one I" 

His manner was excited, his hand trembled, and 
his eye had an insane gleam as he spoke. We 
walked on in silence until we reached my office on 
Montgomery street. After entering, I laid down 
my letters and papers, and was about to offi^r him 

(89) 



90 An Interview. 

a chair, when he hurriedly locked tne door on the 
inside, saying as he did so — 

" This conversation is to be private, and I do not 
intend to be interrupted." 

As he turned toward me I saw that he had a 
pistol in his hand, which he laid on a desk, and 
then sat down. I waited for him to speak, eyeing 
him and the pistol closely, and feeling a little un- 
comfortable, locked in thus with an armed madman 
of almost giant-like size and strength. The pistol 
had a sinister look that I had never before recog- 
nized in that popular weapon. It seemed to grow 
bigger and bigger. 

" Have you ever been haunted by the idea of sui- 
cide?" he asked abru2:)tly, his eyes glaring upon me 
as he spoke. 

"No, not particularly," I answered; "but why 
do you ask?" 

"Because the idea is haunting me" he said in an 
agitated tone, rising from his chair as he spoke. 
"I have lain for two nights with a cocked pistol in 
my hand, calculating the value of my life. I 
bought that pistol to shoot myself with, and I won- 
der that I have not done it; but something has 
held me back." 

"What has put the idea of suicide into your 
mind?" I inquired. 

"My life's a failure, sir; and there is nothing 



An Interview. 91 

else left for such a fool as I have been," he said 
bitterly. "When a man has no hope left, he 
should die." 

I was making some reply, when he broke in — 

"Hear my history, and then tell me if death is 
not the only thing left for me," laying his hand 
upon the pistol as he spoke. 

AVhen he told me his name I recognized it as 
that of a man of genius, whose contributions to a 
certain popular periodical had given him a wide 
fame in the world of letters. He was the son of a 
venerable New England Bishop, and a graduate of 
Harvard University. I will give his story in his 
own words, as nearly as I can: 

"In 1850 I started to California with honorable 
purpose and high ambition. My father being a 
clergyman, and poor, and greatly advanced in 
years, I felt that it was my duty to make provision 
for him and for the family circle to which I be- 
longed, and of which I was the idol. Animated 
by this purpose, I was full of hope and energy. On 
the ship that took me to California I made the 
acquaintance and fell into the snares of a beautiful 
but unprincipled woman, for whom I toiled and 
sacrificed every thing for eight years of weakness 
and folly, never remitting a dollar to those I had 
intended to provide for at home, carrying all the 
while an uneasy conscience and despising myself 



92 An Interview. 

I made immense sums of money, but it all ^yent for 
nothing but to feed the extravagance and reckless- 
ness of my evil genius. Tortured by remorse, I 
made many struggles to free myself from the evil 
connection that blighted my life, but in vain. I 
had almost ceased to struggle against my fate, 
Avhen Death lifted the shadow from my path. The 
unhappy woman died, and I was free. I was as- 
tonished to find how rapid and how complete was 
the reaction from my despair. I felt like a new 
man. The glowing hopes that had been smoth- 
ered revived, and I felt something of the buoyancy 
and energy with Avhich I had left my New England 
hills. I worked hard, and prospered. I made 
money, and saved it, making occasional remit- 
tances to the family at home, who were overjoyed 
to hear from me after my long and guilty silen(;e. 
I had n't the heart to write to them while pursuing 
my evil life. 

" I had learned to gamble, of course, but noT\ I 
resolved to quit it. For two years I kept this res- 
olution, and had in the meantime saved over six 
thousand dollars. Do you believe that the devil 
tempts men ? I tell you, sir, it is true ! I began to 
feel a strange desire to visit some of my old haunts. 
This feeling became intense, overmastering. My 
judgment and conscience protested, but I felt like 
one under a spell. I yielded, and found my way 



An Interview. 93 

to a well-known gambling-hell, where I lost every 
dollar of my hard-earned money. It was like 
a dream — I seemed to be drawn on to my ruin by 
some invisible but resistless evil power. When 
I had lost all, a strange calm came over me, which 
I have never understood. It may have been the 
reaction, after nights of feverish excitement, or 
2)ossibly it was the unnatural calm that follows the 
death of hope. My self-contempt was complete. 
No language could have expressed the intensity of 
my self-scorn. I sneaked to my lodgings, feeling 
that I had somehow parted with my manhood as 
well as my money. 

"The very next day I was surprised by the offer 
of a lucrative subordinate position in a federal 
office in San Francisco. This was not the first 
coincidence of the sort in my life, where an unex- 
pected influence had been brought to bear upon 
me, giving my plans and prospects a new direction. 
Has God any thing to do with these things ?or is it 
accident? I took the place which was offered to 
me, and went to work with renewed hope and en- 
ergy. I made a vow against gambling, and deter- 
mined to recover all I had thrown away. I saved 
every dollar possible, pinching myself in my living, 
and supplementing my liberal salary by literary 
labors. My savings had again run high up in the 
thousands, and my gains were steady. The Frazer 



94 An Inter clew. 

River mining excitement broke out. An old friend 
of mine came to me and asked the loan of a hun- 
dred dollars to help him off to the new mines. I 
told him he should have the money, and that I 
would have it ready for him that afternoon. After 
he had left, the thought occurred to me that one 
hundred dollars was a very poor outfit for such an 
enterprise, and that he ought to have more. Then 
the thought was suggested — yes, sir, it was sii//- 
gested — that I might take the hundred dollars to a 
faro-bank and win another hundred to place in the 
hands of my friend. I was fully resolved to risk 
not a cent beyond this. The idea took possession 
of my mind, and when he came for the money I 
told him my plan, and proposed that he accom- 
pany me to the gambling-hell. He was a free- 
and-easy sort of fellow, and readily assented. We 
went together, and after alternate successes and 
losses at the faro-bank, it ended in the usual way: 
I lost the hundred dollars. I went home in a 
frenzy of anger and self-reproach. The old pas- 
sion was roused again. A wild determination to 
break the taro-bank took hold upon me. I went 
night after night, betting recklessly until not a dol- 
lar was left. This hai:>pened last week. Can you 
wonder that I have concluded there is no hope for 
as weak a fool as I am?" 

He paused a moment in his rapid recital, pacing 



An Inccrineiv. 95 

tlie floor Avith his hand on the hammer of the pis- 
tol, which he had taken up. 

"Now, sir, candidly, don't you think that the 
best thing I can do is to blow out my brains?" said 
he, cocking the pistol as he spoke. 

The thought occurred to me that it was no un- 
common thing for the suicidal to give way to the 
homicidal mania. The man was evidently half 
mad, and ready for a tragedy. That pistol seemed 
almost instinct with conscious evil intention. If a 
suicide or a homicide was to end the scene, I pre- 
ferred the former. 

"How old are you?" I asked, aiming to create a 
diversion. 

"I am forty-five," he answered, apparently 
brought to a little more recollection of himself by 
the question. 

"I should think," I continued, having arrested 
his attention, " that whatever may have been your 
follies, and how^ever dark the future you have to 
face, you have too much manhood to sneak out of 
life by the back-door of suicide." 

The shot struck. An instantaneous chano;e 
passed over his countenance. Suicide appeared to 
him in a new light — as a cowardly, not an heroic 
act. He had been fascinated with the notion of 
having the curtain fall upon his career amid the 
blaze of blue lights, and the glamour of romance 



06 A)i Interview. 

and the dignity of tragedy, amid the wonder of the 
crowd and the tears of the sentimental. That was 
all gone — the suicide was but a poor creature, weak 
as well as wicked. He was saved. He sank into 
a chair as he handed me the pistol, which I was 
very glad indeed to get into my hands. 

" You should be ashamed of yourself, sir," I con- 
tinued. "You are only forty-five years old; you 
are in perfect health, with almost a giant's strength, 
a classical education, extensive business experi- 
ence, and with a knowledge of the world gained by 
your very mistakes that should be a guarantee 
against the possibility of their rejDctition. A brave 
man should never give up the battle — the bravest 
men never give up." 

" Give me the pistol," he said quietly ; " you need 
not be afraid to trust me with it. The devil has 
left me. I will not act the part of a coward. You 
will hear from me again. Permit me to thank you. 
Good-morning." 

I did hear from him again. The devil seemed 
indeed to have left him. He went to British Co- 
lumbia, where he prospered in business and got 
rich, became a pillar in the Church of which his 
father was one of the great lights, and committed 
not suicide, but matrimony, marrying a sweet and 
cultured English girl, who thinks her tall Yankee 
husband the handsomest and noblest of men. 



STEWART. 




FIRST met him in New Orleans, in Febru- 
ary, 1855. He was small, sandy-haired and 
'^Sssrss^ whiskered, blue-eyed, bushy-headed, with an 
impediment in his speech, rapid in movement, and 
shy in manner. We were on our way to Califor- 
nia, and were fellow-missionaries. At the Advo- 
cate office, on Magazine street, he was discussed 
in my jDresence. " He won't do for California," said 
one who has since filled a large space in the public 
eye; "he won't do for that fast country — he is too 
timid and too slow." Never did a keen observer 
make a greater mistake in judging a man. 

Stewart stood with us on the deck of the Dan- 
iel Webster that afternoon as we swept down the 
mighty Mississippi, taking a last, lingering look 
at the shores we were leaving, perhaps forever, and 
gazing ujion the glories of the sunset on the Gulf. 
I remember well the feelings of mingled sad- 
ness, and curiesity, and youthful hopefulness, that 
7 (97) 



98 Stewart. 

swayed me, until just as the twilight deepened into 
darkness we struck the long, heavy sea-swell, and 
I lost at once my sentiment and my dinner. Sea- 
sickness is the only very distinct remembrance of 
those days on the Gulf. Sea-sick — sea-sicker — sea- 
sickest! Stewart succumbed at once. He was 
very sick, and very low-spirited. One day in the 
Caribbean Sea, he had crawled out of his hot state- 
room to seek a breath of fresh air under the awn- 
ing on deck. He looked unutterably miserable as 
he said to me — 

"Do you believe in presentiments?" 

"Yes, I do," was my half-jocular reply. 

" So do I," he said with great solemnity ; " and 
I have had a j)reseutimeut ever since we left New 
Orleans that w^e should never reach California, 
that we should be caught in a storm, and the ship 
and all on board lost." 

"/have had a presentiment," I answered, "that 
we shall arrive safe and sound in San Francisco, 
and that we shall live and labor many years in 
California, and do some good. Now, I will put 
my presentiment against yours." 

He looked at me sadly, and sighed as he looked 
out upon the boiling sea that seemed like molten 
copper under the midday blaze of the tropical sun, 
and no more was said about presentiments. 

He was with us at Greytown, where we went 



Stewart. 99 

ashore and got our first taste of tropical scenery, 
and where we declined a polite invitation from a 
native to dine on stewed monkey and boiled igua- 
na. (The iguana is a species of big lizard, highly 
prized as a delicacy by the Nicaraguans.) He 
enjoyed with us the sights and adventures of the 
journey across the isthmus. This was a new world 
to him and us, and not even the horrible profanity 
and vulgarity of the ninety " roughs " who came in 
the steerage from New York could destroy the 
charm and glory of the tropics. Among those 
ninety drinking, swearing, gambling fellows, there 
w-ere ninety revolvers, and as we ascended the beau- 
tiful San Juan River, flowing between gigantic 
avenues of lofty teak and other trees, and past the 
verdant grass-islands that waved with the breeze, 
and swayed wdth the motion of the limpid waters, 
the volleys of oaths and fire-arms Avere alike inces- 
sant. Huge, lazy, rusty-looking alligators lined 
the banks of the river by hundreds, and furnished 
targets for these free-and-easy Americans, who had 
left one part of their country for its good, to seek 
a field congenial to their tastes and adapted to 
their talents. The alligators took it all very easy 
in most cases, rolling leisurely into the water as the 
. bullets rattled harmlessly against their scaly sides. 
One lucky shot hit a great monster in the eye, and 
he bounded several feet into the air, and lashed the 

L.ofC. 



100 Stewart. 

water into foam with his struggles, as the steamer 
swept out of sight. The sport was now and then 
enlivened by the appearance of a few monkeys, at 
whom (or which) the revolvered Americans would 
blaze away as they (the monkeys) clambered in 
fright to the highest branches of the trees. Whis- 
ky, profanity, and gunpowder — three things dear 
to the devil, and that go well together — ruled the 
(lay, and gave proof that North American civiliza- 
tion had found its way to those solitudes of nature. 
Birds of gayest plumage fluttered in the air, and 
on either hand the forest blazed in all the vivid- 
ness of the tropical flora. Now and then we would 
meet a bungo, a long, narrow river-boat, usually 
propelled by oars worked by eight tawny fellows 
whose costume was — a panama hat and a cigar! 
Despite their primitive style of dress,- their man- 
ners contrasted favorably with the fellow-passen- 
gers of whom I have spoken. But I must hurry 
on, nor suffer this sketch to be diverted from its 
proper course. How Ave had to stoj) at night on 
the river and lie on the open deck, while the woods 
echoed with the revelry of the "roughs" — how we 
were detained, at Fort Castillo, and how I fared 
sumptuously, being taken for a "Padre" — how I 
didn't throw the contemptible little whiffet who 
commanded the lake steamer overboard for his 
unbearable insolence — how we landed in tlie surf 



Stewart. 101 

at San Juan del Sur, and got drenched — how we 
rode mules in the darkness — how nearly we escaped 
a massacre when a drunken American slapped the 
face of a native at the " Half-way House," and got 
stabbed for it, and five hundred muskets and the 
ninety revolvers were about to be used in shooting 
— how we averted the catastrophe by a little strat- 
egy, and galloped away on our mules, the ladies 
thundering along after in Concord wagons — how at 
midnight we reached the blue Pacific, and gave 
vent to our joy in rousing cheers — and how in due 
time we passed the Golden Gate in the night, and 
waked up in San Francisco harbor — may not be 
told, farther than what is given in this paragraph. 
Stewart was sent to the mines to preach. This 
suited him. Some men shrink from hardships ; he 
seemed to dread only an easy place. Walking his 
mountain circuit, sleeping in the rude miners' cab- 
ins, and sharing their rough fare, he was looked 
upon as a strange sort of man, who loved toil and 
forgot self. Such a man he was. His greatest joy 
was the thought that he could do a w^ork for his 
Master where others could not or would not go. 
It was with this feeling that he took the work of 
agent for the Church-paper and the college, and 
wandered over California and Oregon doing what 
was intensely repugnant to his natural feelings. 
He once told me that he had been such a sinner in 



102 Stewart. 

his youth that he felt it was right that he should 
bear the heaviest cross. The idea of penance un- 
consciously entered into his view of Christian duty, 
and when he was " roughing it " in the mountains 
in midwinter, his letters were most cheerful in tone. 
In the city he was restive, and the more comforta- 
ble were his quarters the more eager was he to get 
away. He had fits of fearful mental depression at 
times, when he would pass Avhole nights rapidly 
pacing his room, with sighs, and groans, and tears. 
His temper was quick and hot. At a camp-meet- 
ing in Sacramento county, he astonished beyond 
measure a disorderly fellow by giving him a sud- 
den and severe caning. After it was over, Stew- 
art's shame and remorse were great. Everybody 
else, however, applauded the deed. He had seen 
service as a soldier in the Mexican war, and was 
noted for his daring, but now that he belonged to 
a non-combatant order, he was mortified that for 
the moment his martial instincts had prevailed. 
His moral courage was equal to any test. Ko man 
dealt more plainly and sternly with the prevalent 
vices of California, nor dealt more faithfully with 
a friend. Many a gambler and debauchee winced 
under his reprooft, and many a Methodist preaclicr 
and layman had his eyes opened by his rebukes. 
But he was tender as well as faithful, and he rarely 
gave offense. He loved, and was loved by, little 



Stewart. 103 

cliiklrcii ; and there is no stronger proof of a juire 
aud gentle nature than that. He was a Protestant 
Carmelite, shunning ease, and glorying only in 
what the flesh naturally abhors. He would have 
been pained by popularity, in the usual sense of the 
Avord. Any unusual attention distressed him, and 
he always shrank from observation, except Avhen 
duty called him out. A graduate of Davidson 
College, North Carolina, and a graduate in medi- 
cine, he was niore anxious to conceal his learning 
than most men are to parade theirs. But the lus- 
ter of such a jewel could not be hid, and that l^op- 
ular instinct which recognizes true souls had given 
Stewart his j)i'oper rank before his fellow-preach- 
ers knew his full value. A single product of his 
brain is in my possession. Bigots and exclusivists 
in the Churches may miss the meaning. M«m arc 
bigots, and do n't know it. 

THE PAEABLE OF THE FISHEKMEN. 

A certain great king ordered two companies of fishermen 
to go out and fish in a large stream that flowed throngli 
his dominions, and in the evening bring in the fruits of 
tlieir day's toil, to supply the tables of the Eoyal Palace. 
The companies went out early in the morning, and began 
to fish. Soon, however, Company A claimed the whole 
stream, and tried to drive away Company B. Every effort, 
fair and unfair, was put forth to this end. Whenever, es- 
l)ecially. Company B succeeded in taking any fish, tli-en a 
cruel and relentless war was waged against them; a part 



104 Stewart. 

of Company A was at once sent to muddy the water, to 
break tlieir nets, and to make sncli dreadful noises as to 
frighten away the fish. Under these disadvantages, if 
Company B were able to take any fish, a great effort Avas 
made to rob their basket, and jiut them in the basket of 
Company A. If Company A could not get them out of 
the basket of Company B, the next effort was to so damage 
them as to render them utterly unfit for use. 

Now all this was done when there was plenty of room 
for both companies, and more fish than both of them could 
possibly take. Indeed, multitudes of fish were frightened 
away by the noise, and swam out into shallows, and bogs, 
and quagmires. Such quantities thus perislied that the 
land stank because of them, and a dreadful pestilence fol- 
lowed. Then the king Avas wroth. But who was to blame? 

When evening was now come, both companies had caught 
a few little fishes, but a part of these few were seriously 
damaged. They returned to the palace with misgivings, 
and presented their almost empty baskets. J. C. S. 

Yankee Jims, Jul}' 11, 1858. 

(Ste^vart chiimcd that he belonged to "Compauy 
B " — as all do, as does everybody else.) 

Wheii the war broke out in 1861, Stewart was 
preaching in Los Angeles county. The roar of 
the great struggle reached him, and he became 
restless. He felt that he ought to share the dan- 
gers and sufferings of the South, In reply to a 
letter from him asking my advice, I advised him 
not to go. But in a few days I got a note from 
him, saying that he had prayed over the matter, 
and felt it bis duty to go — he was needed in the 



Stctcart. 105 

hospital work, and he could not shrink. I doubt 
not there was a subtile attraction to him in the dan- 
ger and hardship to be met and endured. The 
next news was that he had started across Mexico 
to the Rio Grande alone, on horseback, with his 
saddle-bags, Bible, and hymn-book. 

Shortly after crossing the Mexican border, he 
fell in with a man who gave his name as McManus, 
who told him he also was bound to Texas, and 
offered his company. Stewart consented, and they 
rode on together in what proved to be the path of 
fate to both. On the third day that they had jour- 
neyed in company, they stopped in a lonely place 
under the shade of some trees near a spring of 
water to rest and eat. As usual, Stewart read a 
chapter or two in his pocket-Bible, and then took 
out his diary and began to write. McManus now 
saw the opportunity he was seeking. Seizing Stew^- 
art's gun, he placed the muzzle against his breast, 
and fired. He staggered back and fell, the life- 
blood gushing from his heart, and wdth a few gasps 
and moans he was dead. The last words he had 
just traced in his diary were these: "Lord Jesus, 
guide and keep me this day." Providence has pre- 
sented to my mind no greater or sadder mystery 
than such a death for such a man. 

McManus rode back to the little town of Bosa- 
rio, scarcely caring to conceal his awful crime 



106 Stewart. 

among the desperadoes ^vitll whom he associated. 
He rode Stewart's horse, and took, with the well- 
worn saddle-bags, the Bible, the hymn-book, and 
the eight hundred dollars in gold which had led 
him to commit the cruel murder. A small party 
of Texans happened to be passing through that 
region, who, hearing what had been done, arrested 
the murderer; but McManus's Mexican friends 
interfered, and forced the Texans to liberate him. 
But the devil lured the murderer on to his fate. 
He started again toward the Rio Grande, still 
mounted on the murdered preacher's horse, and 
again he fell into the hands of the Texans. What 
befel him then was not stated definitely in the nar- 
rative given by one of the party. It was merely 
said, "McManus will kill no more preachers." 
This does not leave a very w ide field for the exer- 
cise of the imagination. Stew art was buried wdiere 
he met his strange and tragic end. Of all the men 
wdio bore the banner of the cross in the early days 
of California, there was no truer or knightlier soul 
than his. 



THE ETHICS OF GEIZZLY HUNTING. 



jr|\|N the Petaluma boat I met him. He was 
|wlfl? on his way to AVashiugton City, for the 
^k^a^ purpose of presenting to the President of 
the United States a curious chair made entirely of 
buck-horns, a real marvel of ingenuity, of which 
he was quite vain. Dressed in buckskin, with 
fringed leggings and sleeves, belted and bristling 
with hunters' arms, strongly built and grizzly- 
bearded, he was a striking figure as he sat the cen- 
ter of a crowd of admirers. His countenance was 
expressive of a mixture of brutality, cunning, and 
good humor. He was a thorough animal; wild 
frontier life had not sublimated this old sinner in 
the way pictured by writers who romance about such 
thinscs at a distance. Contact with nature and In- 
clians does not seem to exalt the white man, except 
in fiction. It tends rather to draw him back to- 
ward barbarism. The renegade white only differs 
from the red savage in being a shade more devilish. 

(107) 



108 T'he Ethics of Grizzly Hunting. 

" This is Seth Kinman, the great Indian-fighter 
and bear-hunter," said an officious passenger. 

Thus introduced, I shook hands with him. He 
seemed inclined to talk, and was kind enough to 
say he had heard of me, and voted for me. Mak- 
ing due acknowledgment of the honor done me, I 
seated myself near enough to hear, but not so near 
as to catch the fumes of the alcoholic stimulants of 
which he was in the habit of induleins; freely. His 
talk was of himself, in connection with Indians and 
bears. He seemed to look upon them in the same 
light — as natural enemies, to be circumvented or 
destroyed as opportunity permitted. 

"You can't trust an Injun," he said; "I know 
'em. If they git the upper-hand of you, they '11 
cinch you, sure. The only way to git along with 
'em is to make 'em afeard of you. They 'd put a 
arrer through me long ago if I had n't made 'em 
believe I was a conjurer. It happened this way: 
I had a contract for furnishin' venison for the 
troops in Humboldt, and took along a lot of Injuns 
for the hunt. We had mighty good luck, and 
started back to Eureka loaded down with the finest 
sort of deer-meat. I saw the Injuns laggin' behind, 
and whisperin' to one another, and mistrusted 
things was n't exactly right. So I keeps my eye 
on 'em, and had old Cottonblossom here [caressing 
a long, rusty-looking rifle] ready in case any thing 



The Ethics of Grizzly Hunting. 109 

should turn up. You can't trust a Injun — they 're 
all alike ; if they git the upper-hand of you, you 're 
gone!" 

He winked knowingly and chuckled, and then 
went on : 

"I stopped and let the Injuns come up, and then 
got to talkin' with 'em about huntin' and shootin'. 
I told 'em I was a conjurer, and could n't be killed 
by a bullet or arrer, and to prove it I took off my 
buckskin shirt and set it up twenty steps off, and 
told 'em the man who could put a arrer through it 
might have it. They were more than a hour shoot- 
in' at that shirt — the same I 've got on now — but 
they could n't faze it." 

"How was that?" asked an open-mouthed young 
fellow, blazing with cheap jewelry. 

" Why, you see, young man, this shirt is well 
tanned and tough, and I just stood it up on the 
edges, so that when a arrer struck it, it would nat- 
arally give way. If I had only had it on, the 
arrers would have gone clean through it, and me 
too. Injuns are mighty smart in some things, but 
they all believe in devils, conjurin', and such like. 
I played 'em fine on this idee, and they w ere afeard 
to touch me, though they were ready enough if they 
had dared. While I was out choppin' wood one 
day, I see a smoke risin', and thinkin' somethin' 
must be wrong, I got back as soon as I could, and 



110 The Ethics of Grizzly Hunting. 

sure enough my house was burniu'. I know'd it 
was lujuus, and circlin' round I found the track of 
a big Injun; it was plain enough to see where he 
had crossed the creek comin' and goin'. I got his 
skelp — why, his har was that long," he said, meas- 
uring to his elbow, and leering hideously. 

Whether or not this incident was a2:>ocryphal I 
could not decide, but it was evident enough that 
he intensely relished the notion of "skelping" an 
Indian. 

. " I want you to come up to Humboldt and see 
me kill a grizzly," he continued, addressing him- 
self to me. "An' let me tell you now, if ever you 
shoot a grizzly, hit him about the ear. If you hit 
him right, you will kill him ; if you do n't kill him, 
you spile his mind. I have seen a grizzly, after he 
had been hit about the ear, go round an' round 
like a top. No danger in a bar after you have hit 
him in the ear — it 's his tender place. But a bar 's 
mighty dangerous if you hit him anywhere else, an' 
do n't kill him. Me an' a Injun was huntin' in a 
chaparral, and cum across a big grizzly. We both 
blazed away at him at close range. I saw he was 
hit, for he whirled half roun', and partly keeled 
over ; but he got up and started for us, mad as fury. 
We had no time to load, and there was nothin' left 
but to run for it. It was nip and tuck between us. 
I'm a good runner, and the Injun wasn't slow. 



^ The Ethics of Grizzly Hunting. Ill 

Lookin' back, I saw the bar was gaiiiin' on us. I 
kiiow'd he'd git one of us, and so I hauled off 
and knocked the Injun down. Before he coukl 
git up the bar had hini." 

He paused, and looked around complacently. 

"Did the bear kill the Indian?" asked the 
young man with abundant jewelry. 

"No; he chcnved him up awhile, and then left 
him, and the Injun finally got well. If it had been 
a white man, he would have died. Injuns can 
stand a great deal of hurtin' and not die." 

At this point the thought came into my mind 
that if this incident must be taken as a true pre- 
sentation of the ethics of bear-hunting as practiced 
by Mr. Kiuman, I did not aspire to the honor of 
becoming his hunting companion. Are the ethics 
of the stock exchange any higher than those of 
the Humboldt bear-hunter? Let the bear, bank- 
ruptcy, or the devil take the hindmost, is the motto 
of human nature on its dark side, whether on Wall 
street or in the California chaparral. 

" Was you ever in Napa City ? " he inquired of 
me. 

I answered in the affirmative. 

" Did you see the big stuffed grizzly in the drug- 
store? You have, eh? AYell, I killed that bar, 
the biggest ever slioi in Californy. I Avas out one 
day lookin' for a deer about sundown, and heeixl 



112 The, Ethics of Grizzhj ILintlng, 

the dogs a-barkiu' as tliey was comiu' down Eel 
River. In a little while here come the bar, au' a 
whopper he was ! I raised old Cottonblossom, and 
let him have it as he passed me. I saw I had hit 
him, for he seemed to drag his lines [loins] as he 
plunged doAvn the bank of the river among the 
grape-vines and thick bushes. Next mornin' I 
took the dogs and put 'em on his trail. I could 
see that his back was broke, because I could see 
the print where his hind-parts had dragged down 
tlie sandy bed of the river. By and by I hecrd the 
dogs a-bayin', and I know'd they 'd come up with 
him. I hurried up, and found the bar sittin' on 
his rump in a hole of water about three feet deep, 
snappin' his teeth at the dogs as they swum around 
him, barkin' like fury. He could n't git any further 
— old Cottonblossom had done his work for him. I 
thought I would have a little fun by aggravatin' 
him awhile." 

"What do you mean by aggravating the bear?" 
asked a bystander. 

"I would just take big rocks and go up close to 
him, and hit him between the eyes. You ought to 
have heerd him yoid! His eyes actually turned 
green, he was so mad, and his jaws champed like 
a saw-mill ; but he could n't budge — every time he 
tried to git on his feet he fell back agin, the mad- 
dest bar ever seen." 



The Ethics of Grizzly- Hunting. 113 

At this point in the narration Kinman's sinister 
blue eyes gleamed Avith brute ferocity. My aver- 
sion to making him my hunting companion in- 
creased. 

"After I had my fun with him, I took old Cot- 
tonblossom and planted a bullet under his shoul- 
der, and he tumbled over dead. It took four of us 
to pull him out of that hole, and he weighed thir- 
teen hundred pounds." 

I had enough of this, and left the group, reflect- 
ing on the peculiar ethics of bear-hunting. The 
last glimpse I had of this child of nature, he was 
chuckling over a grossly obscene picture which he 
was exhibiting to some congenial spii'its. His invi- 
tation to join him in a bear-hunt has not yet been 
accepted. 
8 




A MEISTDOCIXO MURDER. 



L^^\^MO^G my occasional hearers when I 
J preached on Weber Avenue, in Stockton, 
^ was a handsome, sunny-faced young man 
■\vho, I was informed, was studying for the min- 
istry of the Presbyterian Church. His manners 
were easy and graceful, his voice jileasant, his 
smile winning, and his whole appearance prepos- 
sessing to an unusual degree. He was one of the 
sort of men that everybody likes at first sight. I 
lost trace of him when I left the place, but retained 
a decidedly pleasant remembrance of him, and a 
hopeful interest in his welfare and usefulness. My 
surprise may be imagined W'hen, a few years after- 
ward, I found him in jail charged with complicity 
in one of the most horrible murders ever perpe- 
trated in any country. 

It was during my pastorate in Santa Rosa, in 
187 — , that I was told that Geigier, a prisoner con- 
fined in the county jail, awaiting trial for murder, 

(114) 



A Mendocino Murder. 115 

had asked to see me. Upon vii?iting liim in liis 
cell, I found that his business \vitli nic ^vas not con- 
cerning his soul, but his family. They Avere very 
poor, and since his imprisonment matters had been 
going worse and worse with them, until they were 
in actual want. Knowing well the warm-hearted 
community of Santa Kosa, I did not hesitate to 
promise in their name relief for his wife and chil- 
dren. After having satisfied him on this point, I 
tried to lead the conversation to the subject of 
religion, but seeing he was not disj)osed to talk 
farther, I withdrew. Before leaving the jail, how- 
ever, I was asked to visit another prisoner charged 
with participation in the same murder. On going 
into his cell, the recognition was mutual. It was 
Alexander, whom I had known, and to whom I had 
preached at Stockton. 

"I little thought when I saw you last that we 
would meet in such a place as this," he said, with 
emotion. 

"How comes it that you are here? Surely you 
cannot be the murderer of a woman?" I asked, 
perhaps a little abruptly. 

" It is a curious case, and a long story," he said ; 
" it will all come out on the trial." 

I looked at him with an interrogation point in 
my eyes. Could that pale, meditative, scholarly- 
looking young man be capable of taking part in 



116 A llcndocino Marder. 

siKih a dark tragedy as that of the murder of 
which he had been accused? I left him inclined 
to pronounce him innocent, desjDite the strong evi- 
dence against him. But tlie conviction of many, 
who watched the trial a few months after, was 
clear that he was one of Mrs. Strong's slayers. 

Briefly given, here is the story of the murder as 
gathered from the evidence on the trial, and recol- 
lected after the lapse of several years : 

Mrs. Strong was a middle-aged woman, with the 
violent temper and hardened nature so often met 
with in women who have been subjected to the in- 
fluences of such a life as she had led — among rough 
men, and in a rough country where might too often 
makes right. Geiger and Alexander lived not far 
from the Strongs, in the wildest region of Mendo- 
cino county. A quarrel arose between these two 
men on one side, and Mrs. Strong on the other, con- 
cerning land, the particulars of which have passed 
my memory. It seems that the right of the case 
lay rather with the men, and that INIrs. Strong, 
wdth a woman's peculiar talent for 2:»rovocation, 
rather presumed on her sex in ignoring their claims, 
at the same time forfeiting all right to considera- 
tion on that score by violent language and unwo- 
manly taunts whenever she met them. According 
to the most charitable theory (and to me it seems 
the most reasonable), Geiger and Alexander, [)rc- 



A Mendocino Murder. 117 

vioiisly angered by unreasonable opposition, acci- 
dentally met Mrs. Strong in a piece of woods. The 
subject of dispute was brought up, and it is sup- 
posed that the unfortunate woman became more 
and more violent and abusive, until finally, mad- 
dened by her words, one of the men, Geiger, it is 
supposed, struck her down. Then, seeing that she 
was injured fatally, and fearing discovery, he and 
Alexander finished the job, and fastening a heavy 
stone to her neck, hid the body in one of the dark- 
est holes of the stream that flowed through those 
wild hills, piling stones on the breast and limbs of 
the corpse to insure concealment. 

Of course Mrs. Strong was missed, and search 
for her began, in which her two murderers were 
forced t-o join. What a terrible time that was for 
the two men — those rides through the woods and 
canons, a hundred times passing the dreadful spot, 
with its awful secret! Surely worse punishment 
on earth for their terrible crime could not be con- 
ceived. Those two instruments of human torture 
which the Inquisition has never surpassed. Remorse 
and Fear, were both gnawing at the hearts of these 
wretched men during all of that long and futile 
search. But it was given up at last, and they 
breathed easier. 

A few weeks after, an Indian on his pony, riding 
through the woods, felt thirsty, and turned down 



115^ A Mendocino llurder. 

the canon to a spot where the trees stood thick, and 
tlie rocks jutted out over the water like greedy mon- 
sters looking at their helpless prey beneath. He 
stooped to quench, his thirst in the primitive fash- 
ion, but before his lips had touched the water his 
roving eye caught sight of a swaying something a 
little way up the stream that made even that stolid 
red man shrink from drinking that sparkling fluid, 
for it had flowed over the body of a dead woman. 
Mrs. Strong was found. The force of the stream 
had washed awav the Aveisfhtino'-stones from the 
lower limbs, and the stream having fallen several 
feet since the heavy rains of the past weeks, the 
feet of the corpse were visible above the water. 
The stone was still attached to the neck, thus keep- 
ing all but those ghastly feet under the water. 
The long-hidden murder was out at last, and the 
quiet Indian riding away on his tired poify carried 
with him the fate of Geiger and Alexander. When 
the news was told, it was remembered how unAvill- 
ing they had been to search near that spot, and 
how uneasy and excited they had seemed whenever 
it was approached. Indeed, they had been objects 
of suspicion to many, and the discovery of the body 
was followed immediately by their arrest. The trial 
resulted in the acquittal of Alexander, the justice 
of which was questioned by many, and a sentence 
of life-long imprisonment for Geiger. Before his 



A 3Icndocino Murder. 



119 



rciuoval to the State-prison, however, he made his 
escape, aided, it is supposed, by his wife, who is 
thought to have brought him tools for that pur- 
pose secreted in her clothing. He has never been 
found, and in all probability never will be. Some 
say he has never left the county, and is living the 
life of a wild animal in the mountains there ; but 
it is more likely that he, like the first murderer, 
fled to far lands, where he must ever bear the 
scarlet letter of Remorse in his heart. 




BEjS^. 




, EN was a black man. His African blood 
was unmixed. His black skin was true 
ebony, his lips were as thick as the thick- 
est, his nose was as flat as the flattest, his head as 
woolly as the woolliest. His immense lips were 
red, and their redness was not a mark of beauty, 
only giving a grotesque effect to a physiognomy no 
part of which presented the least element of the 
sesthetic. He had neither feet nor legs, but was 
quite a lively pedestrian, shuffling his way on his 
stumps, which were j^rotected by thick leather cov- 



Ben, when I first knew him, kept a boot-black 
stand near the jDost-office in San Francisco. He 
also kept postage-stamps on sale. He was talka- 
tive, and all his talk was about religion. His 
patrons listened with wonder or amusement. A 
boot-black that talked religion in the very vortex 
of the seething sea of San Francisco jnam monism, 

(120) 



Ben. 121 

was a new thing. And then Ben's quaint way of 
speaking lent a special interest to his words, and 
his enjoy ]nent of his one theme was catching. He 
was more given to the relation of experience than 
to polemics. When he touched upon some point 
that moved him, he would unconsciously pause in 
his work, his exulting voice arresting the attention 
of many a hurried passer-by, as he spoke of the love 
of Jesus, and of the peace of God. 

He slept at night in the little cage of a place in 
which he polished boots and shoes by day. Many 
a time when I have passed the spot at early dawn, 
on my way to take the first boat for Sacramento, 
I have heard his voice singing a hymn inside. A 
lark's matin song could not be freer or more joyful. 
It seemed to be the literal bubbling over of a soul 
full of love and joy. The melody of Ben's morn- 
ing song has followed me many and many a mile, 
by steam-boat and by rail. It was the melody of a 
soul that had learned the sublime secret which the 
millionaires of the metropolis might well give their 
millions to buy. 

Ben had been a slave in Missouri in the old days 
ante helium. He spoke kindly of his former own- 
ers, who had treated him well. Being liberated, 
he emigrated to California, and found his way 
to San Francisco — a waif that had floated into a 
new world. 



122 Ben. 

"How came you to be so crippled, Ben?" I 
asked him one day as he was lingering on the final 
touches on my second boot, being in one of his hap- 
piest and most voluble moods. 

" My feet and legs got froze in Mizzoory, sir, and 
dey had to be cut off." 

"That was a hard trial for you, wasn't it?" 

" No, sir, it did n't hurt me as much as I 'spected 
it would, an' I know'd it was all for de bes', else 
't would n't have happened ter me. De loss o' dem 
legs don't keep me from gittin' about, an' my 
health's as good as anybody's. De Lord treats 
me kin', and mos' everybody has a kind word for 
Ben. Bless God, he makes me happy widout 
legs!" 

The plantation patois clave to Ben, and among 
the sounds of the many-tongued multitude of San 
Francisco, it had a charm to ears to which it was 
familiar in early days. It was like the song of a 
land-bird at sea. 

Ben had a great joy when his people bought and 
moved into their house of worship. He gave a 
hundred dollars, which he had laid by for that 
object a dime at a time. It made him happier to 
give that money than to have been remembered in 
Vanderbilt's will. 

" I wanted ter give a hundred dollars to help buy 
de house, an' I know de Lord wanted me to do it, 



Ben. 123 

too, 'cause de customers poured In an' kep' me busy 
all day long. Once in awhile a gentleman would 
han' me a quarter, or half a dollar, an' would n't 
wait for change. . I know'd what dat meant — it 
w^as for dat hundred dollars." 

Ben's big, dull, white eyes were not capable of 
much expression, but his broad, black face beamed 
with grateful satisfaction as he gave me this little 
bit of personal history. A trustee of his Church 
told me that they were not willing at first to take 
the money from Ben, but that they saw plainly it 
would not do to refuse. It was the fulfillment of 
a cherished object that he had carried so long in 
his simple, trusting heart, that to have rejected his 
gift would have been cruelty. 

The last time I saw Ben he was working his way 
along a crowded thoroughfare, dragging his heavy 
leathers, his head reaching to the waist of the av- 
erage man. 

"How are you, Ben?" I said, as we met. 

"Bless God, I'm first-rate!" he said, grasping 
my hand warmly, his face brightening, and every 
tooth visible. It was clear he had not lost the 
secret. 

Ben w^as not a Methodist — he was what is popu- 
larly called a Campbellite. 



OLD TUOLUMNE. 



i|j|JW^||HE former residents of Tuolumne county, 
^^|sj California, meet once a year in some city 
'i^W©?' or town, and celebrate " auld lang-syne" 
by an oration, a poem, a dinner, and other exer- 
cises. These occasions become more interestiuo: as 
the old times recede. The author of this little vol- 
ume was called to the office of poet laureate in 
1875, and these verses are the result: 

The bearded men in rude attire, 
Witli nerves of steel, and hearts of fire — 
The -women few, hut fair and s^yeet, 
Like shadowy visions dim and fleet — 

Again I see, again I hear. 
As tlirough the past I dimly peer, 
And muse o'er buried joy and pain, 
And tread tlie liills of youth again. 

As speeds the torrent, strong and wild, 
Adown the mountains rouglily piled, 
To find the plain, and there to sink 
In thirsty sands that eager drink 

(124) 



Old Tuolumne. 125 

The streams tliat toward tlie ocean flow, 
As on, and ever on, they go — 
Their course as brief, their doom as sure — 
A rush, a flash, and all is o'er ! — 

So tides of life that early rolled 
Through old Tuolumne's hills of gold, 
Are spread and lost in other lands. 
Or swallowed in the desert sands, 

AVhere manliood's strength and beauty's bloom 
Have ruslied to meet the common doom ; 
The arm of might, the heart of love, 
The soul that soared to worlds above ; 

The high intent that scaled the heights 
Where false Ambition's treacherous lights 
Delusive shine to mock and cheat 
The wretcli who climbs with bleeding feet. 

O days of youth ! O days of power ! 
Again ye come for one glad hour. 
To let us taste once more the joy 
That Time may dim, but not destroy. 

Again we feel our pulses thrill 
To hear sweet voices long since still ; 
Again Hope's air-built castles bright 
Kise up before the enchanted sight. 

Ye are not lost! The arm of might, 
The smile of beauty and brow of light, 
The love, the hope, the high emprise. 
The visions born in paradise. 

As all the streams that sink from sight 
In desert sands, and leave the light. 



12G 



Old Tuolumne. 



To the blue seas make silent way, 
To swell their tides some future day — 

So lives that siuk and fade from view, 
Like scattered drops of rain or dew, 
Shall gather witli all deathless souls, 
Where the eternal ocean rolls! 
California, June 17, 1875. 



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THE BLUE LAKES. 




T is not strange that the Indians think the 
Bkie Lakes are haunted, and that even the 
^^>feis^ Avhite man's superstition is not proof against 
the weird and solemn influence that broods over 
this spot of almost unearthly beauty. They are 
about ten miles from Lakeport, the beautiful coun- 
ty-seat of Lake county, which nestles among the 
oaks on the margin of Clear Lake, a body of water 
about thirty miles long, and eight miles wide, sur- 
rounded by scenery so lovely as to make the vis- 
itor forget for the time that there is any ugliness in 
the world. The first sight of Clear Lake, from the 
highest point of the great range of hills shutting it 
in on the south, will never be forgotten by any one 
who has a soul. After winding slowly up, up, up 
the mountain road, a sharp turn is made, and you 
are on the summit. The driver stops his panting 
team, you spring out of the "thorough-brace," and 
look, and look, and look. Immediately below you 

(127) 



128 The Blue Lakes. 

is a sea of hills, stretching away to where they 
break against the lofty rampart of the coast-range 
on your left, and in front sinking gradually down 
into the valley below. The lake lies beneath you, 
flashing like a mirror in the sunlight, its north- 
ern shore marked by rugged brown acclivities, the 
nearer side dotted with towns, villages, and farms, 
while " Uncle Sam," the monarch peak of all the re- 
gion, lifts his awful head into the clouds, the spark- 
ling waters kissing his feet. I once saw "Uncle 
Sam " transfigured. It was a day of storm. The 
wind howled among the gorges of the hills, and the 
dark clouds swept above them in mighty masses, 
the rain falling in fitful and violent showers. Paus- 
ing at the summit to rest the horse, and to get a 
glance at the scene in its wintry aspect, I drew my 
gray shawl closer, and leaned forward and gazed. 
It was about the middle of the afternoon. Suddenly 
a rift in the clouds westward let the sunshine 
through, and falling on "Uncle Sam," lo, a mira- 
cle ! The whole mountain, from base to summit, 
Bofteued, blushed, and blazed with the prismatic 
colors. It was a transfiguration. The scene is 
symbolic. Behind me and about me are cloud 
and tempest, typing the humanity of the past and 
the present with its conflicts, and trials, and dan- 
gers ; before me the glorified mountain, typing the 
humanity of tJie futnre, enveloped in the rainbow 



The Blue Lakes. 129 

of peace, sliowing that the storms are all over. 
This Avas my interpretation to my friend Avho sat 
by my side, but I do not insist upon it as canonical. 

The Blue Lakes lie among the hills above Clear 
Lake, and the road leads through dense forests, of 
which the gigantic white-oaks are the most strik- 
ing feature. It passes through Scott's Valley, a 
little body of rich land, the terraced hills behind, 
and the lake before. Winding upward, the ascent 
is so gradual that you do not realize, until you are 
told, that the Blue Lakes are six hundred feet above 
the level of Clear Lake. The lakes are three in 
number, and in very high water they are connected. 
They are each perhaps a mile in length, and only a 
few hundred yards in width. Their depth is im- 
mense. Their waters are a particularly bright blue 
color, and so clear that objects are plainly seen many 
fathoms below the surface. They are hemmed in 
by the mountains, the road being cut in the side 
of the overhanging bluff, while on the opposite side 
bold, rugged brown cliffs rise in almost perpendic- 
ular walls from the water's edge. A growth of 
oaks shades the narrow vale between the lakes, 
and the mountain-pine, and oak, madrona, and man- 
zanita clothe the heights. 

There are the Blue Lakes. A solemnity and 
awe steal over you. Speech seems almost proftme. 
The very birds seem to hush their singing as they 
9 



130 The Blue Lakes. 

flit iu bilencc among the trees. Tlic cliatter of a 
gray squirrel has an audacious sound as the bushy- 
tailed little hoodlum dashes across the grade, and 
rushes up a tree. The coo of a turtle-dove away 
off in a distant canon falls, on the ear like the echo 
of a human sorrow that had found soothing, but 
not healing. The sky overhead is as blue as the 
drapery of Guido's Madonna, and there is just a 
hint of a breeze sighing over the still waters, like 
the respiration of a peaceful sleeper. The clifts 
above the lake duplicate themselves in the water 
beneath with startling life-likeness, and with the 
spell of the place upon you it would scarcely sur- 
prise you to see unearthly shapes emerge from the 
crystal depths, glittering in celestial beauty. 

The feeling of superstitious awe is perhaps in- 
creased by the knowledge of the fact that no Indian 
will go near these lakes. Tliey say a monster 
inhabits the upper lake, and has subterranean com- 
nmnication with the two lower ones, and of this 
monster they have a mortal terror. This terror is 
explained by the following legend : 

Many, many moons ago, when the Ukiah Indians 
were a great and strong people, a fair-haired white 
man, of great stature, came from the sea-shore 
alone, and took up his abode w'ith them. He knew 
many things, and was stronger than any warrior of 
the tribe. The chief took him to his own cam- 



The Blue Lakes. 131 

poody, and giving him his daughter for his wife, 
made him his son. JShc loved the white man, and 
never tired in looking upon his fair face, and into 
his bright blue eyes. But by and by the white 
man, tiring of his Indian bride, and longing to see 
his own peoj)le, turned his face again toward the 
sea, and fled. She followed him swiftly, and over- 
taking him at the Blue Lakes, gently reproached 
him for his desertion of her, and entreated him to 
return. They were standing on the rock overhang- 
ing the lake on its northern side. He took her 
hand smiling, and spoke deceitful words, and then 
suddenlv seizin cf her, hurled her with all his strenc-th 
headlong into the lake. She sank to the bottom, 
while the white man resumed his flight, and was 
seen no more. His murdered bride was trans- 
formed into an evil genius of the lake. The long 
and sinuous outline of a serpentine form would be 
seen on the surface of the water, out of which would 
be lifted at intervals the head of a woman, with 
long, bright hair, and sad, filmy, blue eyes, into 
which whosoever looked would die before another 
twelve moons had passed. 

The Indians would go miles out of their way to 
avoid the haunted spot, and more than one white 
man affirmed that they had seen the Monster of 
Clear Lake. 

One stormy day in the winter of eighteen hun- 



132 The Blue Lakes. 

drcd and sixty-something, I was with a friend on 
my way from Ukiah to Lakeport, by way of the 
Blue Lakes. After swimming Russian River, al- 
ways a bold and rapid stream, but then swollen 
and angry from recent heavy rains, urging our 
trusty span of horses through the storm, at length 
we reached the grade winding along above the 
lakes. The darkened heavens hung pall-like over 
the waters, the clouds weeping, and the wind moan- 
ing. Dense clouds boiled up along the mountain- 
peaks, veiling their heads in white folds. Ko sign 
of life was visible. We drove slowly, and were 
silent, feeling the spell of the place. 

" There 's the Monster ! " I suddenly exclaimed. 

"Where?" asked my companion, starting, and 
straining his gaze upon the lake below. 

There it was — a long, dark mass, with serpent- 
like movement, winding its way across the lake. 
It suddenly vanished, without lifting above the 
water the woman's head with the bright hair and 
filmy eyes. My companion expressed the prosaic 
idea that it was a school of fish swimming near the 
surface, l)ut I am sure we saw all there was of the 
Monster of the Blue Lakes. 



A CALIFORNIA MOUNTAm ROAD. 




ijE wound along tlie mountain way, 
^ My friend and I, and spake no word ; 
"We felt that air should but he stirred 
By bird's rich note, or wind's soft play. 

The deep blue sky to us said, "Hush;" 
The pure, soft air could not bear speech; 
And steep decline, and lofty reach, 

Kej)t silence all with tree and bush. 

What need for words when every sense 
Was full to brim? We had no thought, 
But only felt the glow, and caught 

The mightiness, the joy intense. 

Uplifted high above it all, 

The shrouded maid, St. Helen,* lay; 

From either side there swept away 
A stretch of bare, brown earth, the pall. 



'= Mount St. Helena is so enlled on account of its resemblance to 
the form of a recumbent maiden, when seen from tlie south. 

. (133) 



134 A California Mountain Road, 

The nearer slopes Avere clotlied in green, 
"Witli here and tliere the topaz flame 
Of poison-oak. of deadly fame ; 

While far below was faintly seen, 

In depths of shade, the foaming flow 
Of water from the mountain height. 
The canon's sides were hung Avitli light. 

Young trees, and starred with flowers' glow. 

And oft from out the wild brush-wood. 
Like to some slender Indian maid, 
Upstarting from the thicket's shade, 

The redskin tree, Madrona, stood. 

Behind us lay the giant stair. 

By which we pigmies reached this heiglit; 

Each lessening step in that soft light 
Was violet-robed by the magic air. 

Ah! that fair day! 'Twas crowned, complete; 
For that true friend who sliared ray ride. 
And Nature's self who stood beside, 

My dearest were, and they did meet. 

Since then, my friend has left my side 
For Mother Earth's, and buried deep 
Where sea-Avinds wail, he sound doth sleep ; 

And half is gone from tree and tide. 

Though all unchanged that scene may be, 
Its charm for me would now be pain. 
I could not ride that road again, 

My friend in earth, and not with me. 



I)K. ELEAZAR THOMAS. 



^DOU and I are new-comers to California, and 
y Wf § having had no part in the strifes in which 
^%,^5-^ some of our brethren have been engaged, 
we will act as peace-makers, and keej) these bellig- 
erents quiet." 

This Avas the half-playful remark of Dr. Eleazar 
Thomas, one of a group of preachers sitting in the 
parlor of the then editor of the California Christian 
Advocate, the Ilev. S. D. Simonds, in the spring of 
1855. We had taken tea together, and were en- 
gaged in free-and-easy conversation in the editor's 
cottage, high up on Clay Street Hill. 

The speaker, like myself, had just arrived in 
California, in the capacity of a Methodist preacher 
— he from the North, and I from the South. He 
was a. man of pleasing and commanding presence, 
tall, ruddy-complexioned, ^vith blue eyes, and light- 
ish hair, with deliberate and distinct enunciation, 
and a winning manner. Take the best points of a 

(135) 



136 Dr. Elcazar Thomas. 

Presbyterian preacher of the best cLass, and the 
best points of a Methodist preacher of the best 
class, and the combined result would be just such 
a man as he appeared to me that evening. And 
now, after the laj)se of twenty-four years, this 
description seems to suit him still. Subsequent 
events recalled to my mind the remark I have 
quoted, but with widely different feelings at differ- 
ent times. He became the editor of the Northern 
Methodist, and I of the Southern Methodist organ, 
in San Francisco. The California. Christian Advo- 
cate and the Pacific Methodist were like batteries 
planted on Mount Ebal and jMount Gerizim respect- 
ively, waking the echoes by their cannonading in 
many an editorial duel. The war drove us farther 
and still farther apart in opinion, but every time 
we met we drew closer to each other in personal 
attachment. In those unhappy days, many a 
friendship was hopelessly wrecked by differences 
of political opinion — a fact which shows how ardent 
Avere the convictions on both sides, and explains 
the fact of a five years' deadly conflict between 
men speaking the same language, reading the same 
Bible, praying to the same God, reared under the 
same constitution, and cherishing the same historic 
memories. Both sides were in earnest, and it was 
their sad fate to be compelled to fight out a quar- 
rel bequeathed to them by their glorious but falli- 



Dr. Elcazar Thomas. 137 

bio ancestors. Tlie seeds of the civil war of 1861 
were sown in the very compromises of the constitu- 
tion of 1783. At the white heat of the struggle 
my brother editor wrote things that amazed and 
angered me. Perhaps if he wTre speaking now, 
he would say the same of me. But his mind was 
naturally conservative and philosophic, and long 
before the fall of the curtain at Appomattox he 
had reacted, recovering the tone of moderation 
and magnanimity of spirit that w'cre natural to 
him. One day, just after the close of the war, we 
met on a street-corner. He expressed great satis- 
faction that the effusion of blood had ceased, paid 
a glowing tribute to the courage of the vanquished 
party and the greatness of Lee, and then added, 
thoughtfully — 

" But you may see which side God was on by the 
result." 

" That will not do," I answered ; "if the triumph 
of brute force is to be taken as evidence of the 
Divine approval, you will have to unread the 
larger part of history. On that principle, those 
that crucified Jesus were right, and he w^as wrong ; 
the mob was right, and Stephen was wrong ; Kome 
was right, and the victims she ground under her 
.'ron heel were wrong ; Austria w^as right, and Hun- 
gary was Avrong; Kussia v>as right, and poor Po- 
land was wrong. As I read history, it teaches that 



138 Br. Elcaziu- Thomas. 

the right has usually been advanced, not by its tri- 
umphs on the bloody field, but ])y the sublime for- 
titude of its adherents under defeat, and in tlie 
midst of suffering and sorrow. If I were to pre- 
sume to interpret the providence of God, and to 
infer what are his designs, a different conclusion 
might be reached. A strong nation conquers the 
weak nation. The able-bodied ruffian flogs the 
feeble-bodied saint. Three men in the wrong will, 
in an appeal to brute force, be more than a match 
for one in the right. That is the usual course of 
events. Noav and then God makes bare his arm in 
such a way as to show that the race is not always 
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. God 
may have been on the winning side in the late war, 
as you say, but it will not do for a Christian man 
to assume that He is always on the side that pre- 
vails on the bloody field. That would be making 
him particeps crlminis with every tyrant that has 
scourged the earth." 

"'Well, we can at least agree in the hope and 
prayer that He will overrule all for the good of all 
in our land, and that with peace may come mutual 
forgiveness and universal prosperity." 

" Yes ; I can unite heartily with you in that hope 
and prayer." 

"Give me your hand," he said impulsively; 
"henceforward we must all stand together, and 



Dr. Elcazar Thomas. 139 

make the best of the new coiiditious which have 
arisen." 

He stood to that pledge, meaning what he said. 
We met frequently, and I always felt that my spirit 
was sweetened, and my horizon broadened, by in- 
tercourse with this strong thinker who had cast 
aside the strait-jacket of provincialism and big- 
otry, and whose own vision had a w^idening range. 
Agreeing in spirit, our very differelices of opinion 
enhanced the charm of his society and the relish 
of his conversation. This man was the type of an 
immense class, both ISTorth and South, whose tra- 
ditions and natural affiliations made them stub- 
born antagonists in war times, but to whose broad 
patriotism, conscientious conservatism, and sweet 
Christian spirit, our country must look for the 
speedy restoration and perpetual enjoyment of the 
blessings and benefits of national union. When, 
as a fraternal delegate to the Pacific Conference 
(with Dr. M. C. Briggs as associate), held at Vaca- 
ville in 1868, after his l)eautiful and touching ad- 
dress, I rose and extended him my hand in token 
of fraternity, I did so all the more cordially because 
I knew that behind his gloAving, fraternal w^ords, 
there was beating a warm, fraternal heart. The 
scene was dramatic, but not intentionally so, when, 
as the interview proceeded, the tide of good-feeling 
rose higher and higher, until, SAveeping away all 



140 Dr. Eleazar Thomas. 

obstructions, fraternity triumphed amid a storm of 
Aniens and a shower of tears. Ecclesiastical prej- 
udice and punctilio could not withstand the swell- 
ing current of love which bore that body of INIeth- 
odist preachers on its bosom. Bishop Marvin was 
in the chair. They know each other better now, 
as they stand in the light of God. 

When Dr. Thomas was appointed by the Presi- 
dent of the United States a peace commissioner to 
the Modoc Indians, all Californians recognized his 
fitness for the position. If a peace policy was to 
be followed, it was proper that a minister of the 
Prince of Peace should be called into service. 
\Yhether the " Quaker policy," so called, was the 
right one, is a question concerning which the men 
on the border and the theorists in older communi- 
ties have always differed. William Penn was suc- 
cessful in dealing with Indians. So were Andrew 
Jackson, Jack Hays, and General Crook — but in 
a different way. The history of the Modoc war 
may be taken as typical of the whole history of our 
dealings with the Indians. The whites were arbi- 
trary, and the Indians savage and treacherous. 
The immediate cause of the war was the attempted 
forcible removal of the Indians to a reservation, in 
the fall of 1872. The Modocs, who had already a 
bad reputation, resisted. The small detachment of 
soldiers sent to remove them was attacked, and, 



Dr. FAcazar Thomas. 141 

after a brisk figlit, the Modocs fled to the liills 
along the Oregon line, killing t\velve or fourteen 
unfortunate "whites on their retreat. The United 
States soldiers sent to operate against them failed 
to accomplish any thing farther than to get several 
of their number killed and scalped. The Indians 
took refuge in the lava-beds — a mass of volcanic 
rock in Siskiyou county, California, about three 
miles wide and six miles long, and in places rising 
to a considerable height. These rocks are honey- 
combed with holes and caves, affording shelter and 
concealment for thousands of men. They are four 
hundred and eighty miles north of San Francisco, 
and about two hundred miles from Crescent City, 
on the extreme northern coast-line of California. 
Mount Shasta, 14,440 feet above the sea, glacier- 
crowned, is seventy miles south. Captain Jack, 
chief of the Modocs, intrenched in this stronghold 
of nature, defied the United States army, repelling 
every assault, shooting down the soldiers with impu- 
nity. The Indians became more exacting in their 
demands, believing themselves impregnable. At 
this juncture the four Peace Commissioners — Gen- 
eral Canby, Dr. Thomas, and Dyar and Meacham 
— met a delegation of Modoc warriors by invita- 
tion of Captain Jack, who stipulated that none but 
the commissioners should be present, and that all 
should go unarmed. On the morning of May 11, 



142 Dr. Elcazar TJiomas. 

1873, Captain Jack, with four warriors, issued from 
the lava-beds, and in a chosen spot met the com- 
missioners. The formalities usual on such occa- 
sions were gone through with, several " talks " were 
had, and the negotiations seemed to be making 
good progress, when, quick as thought, the treach- 
erous Modoc chief snatched a pistol which he had 
concealed on his person, and shouting to his men, 
"Hetuckf" "Hetuck!" (All ready!) sent a bullet 
through the head of the brave Canl)y, who fell 
dead. Two of the Indians attacked Dr. Thomas, 
shooting and killing him on the spot where he 
stood. Meacham was wounded. Dyar escaped 
unhurt, and fled to camp with the dreadful news. 

So ended the mission of the peace-maker, and so 
died ray friend. His body was brought to San 
Francisco, and was given such a burial as is be- 
stowed only upon heroes and 2:>ublic benefactors. 
The civil dignitaries of the State and city, the offi- 
cers and soldiers of the army, the venerable and 
honored ministers of Christ, and a vast multitude of 
sorrowful men and women, gathered at the sanctu- 
ary on Powell street, where his voice was first heard 
in San Francisco, uniting to honor a man who lived 
nobly and died gloriously at the post of duty. To 
our poor human sight, it seems as if in the battle 
that is being fought for all that is dear and dis- 
tinctive in our Christian civilization in California, 



Dr. Elcazar Thomas. 



143 



his wisdom and liis valor are needed. Above all, 
it would seem that his influence is needed to draw 
good men nearer together for the struggle in which 
they are all equally interested. But Infinite Wis- 
dom instead gave him the completed beatitude, 
and left to us the example of the Peace-maker. 




FATHER ACOLTI. 




FIRST met him one day in 1857, in the 
Santa Cruz Mountains. Stopping at a sort 
^^>Kv;5i^ of wayside inn near the summit to water my 
horse, a distinguished-looking man, who stood by 
his buggy with a bucket in liis hand, saluted me — 
"Good-morning, sir. You wish to water your 
horse — may I wait on you?" 

His manner would have melted in a moment a 
whole mountain of conventional ice, it was so cor- 
dial and so spontaneous. Disregarding my mild 
protest against being waited on by my senior, he 
filled the bucket from the sparkling fountain, and 
gave it to the thirsty animal, still panting from the 
long climb ujd the mountain-side. In the mean- 
time we had exchanged names and occupations — 
he, Father Acolti, a priest, and teacher in the 
Jesuit College at Santa Clara ; and I, the writer of 
these humble Sketches. As he stood there before 
me, he looked like any thing rather than a disciple 

(144) 



Father Acolti. 145 

of Ignatius Loyola. He was sturdy and fat, yet 
refined and graceful in appearance. His features 
were large, his head massive, his expression one of 
great benignity, illuminated with frequent flashes 
of good humor. There was also about him a some- 
thino' that suG:2:ested that he had suffered. I fell 
in love with Father Acolti on the spot. When he 
drove down the mountain on the one side, and I 
on the other, it really seemed as if the grand red- 
woods had caught a friendlier look, and the wild 
honeysuckles a richer fragrance from the sunny- 
faced old priest. The tone of human companion- 
ship wonderfully modifies the aspects of external 
nature. 

Father Acolti and I met often after this. On the 
highway, in the social circles of the lovely Santa 
Clara Valley, and especially in the abodes of sick- 
ness and poverty, I crossed his path. He seemed 
to have an instinct that guided him to the needy 
and the sorrowing. It is certain that the instinct 
of suffering souls led them to the presence of the 
old priest, whose face Avas so fatherly, whose voice 
was so gentle, whose eye melted so readily Avith 
pity, and wdiose hand was so quick to extend relief. 

There was a tinge of romance in Father Acolti's 

history. He was an Italian of noble birth. A 

beautiful woman had given him her heait and 

hand, and before one year of wedded happiness had 

10 



146 Father Acolti. 

passed she died. The young nobleman's earthly 
hope and ambition died "with her. He sold his 
estates, visited her tomb for the last time, and then, 
renouncing the world, applied for admission into 
the mysterious order of the Society of Jesus, an 
organization whose history makes the most curious 
chapter in the record of modern religious conflict. 
Having served his novitiate, he was ready for work. 
His scientific attainments and tastes naturally drew 
liim to the work of education, and doubtless he 
heartily responded to the command to repair to 
California as one of a corps of teachers who were 
to lay the foundations of an educational system for 
the Roman Catholic Church. But in reality, the 
Jesuits had entered California nearly ninety years 
before, and laid the foundations upon which tlieir 
successors arc now building. The old mission- 
churches, with their vineyards and orchards, are 
the monuments of their zeal and devotion. The 
California Digger Indians were the subjects of the 
missionary zeal of the early Jesuit Fathers, and 
whether the defect was in the methods of the teach- 
ers, or in the capabilities of their Indian neophytes, 
the effort to elevate those poor red brethren of ours 
to the plane of Cliristian civilization failed. They 
are still savages, and on the path to extinction. 
The Digger will become neither a citizen nor a 
Christian. He is one of the very lowest of tlie 



Father Acolti. 147 

Imman fiiniily, and his room will soon be accepted 
in place of his company. In the conflict of vig- 
orous races on the Pacific coast, he has no chance 
to survive. The Jesuits deserve credit for what 
they attempted in behalf of the Indians. We 
Protestants, who claim a purer faith, and better 
methods, have as yet done but little to arrest tlie 
process of their extirpation, or elevate them in the 
scale of humanity. I fear we have been but too 
ready to conclude that these poor wretches are not 
included in the command to jireach the gospel to 
every creature. The sight of a Digger Indian 
camp makes a heavy draft upon Christian faith. 
But did not the Christ die for them ? 

One fact in Father Acolti's history invested him 
with peculiar interest in the minds of the people: 
He was of noble blood. I do not know how many 
persons in the Santa Clara Valley whispered this 
secret to me as a fact of great importance. Dem- 
ocrats and republicans as they are in theory, no 
people on earth have in their secret hearts a pro- 
founder reverence for titles of nobility than the 
Americans. From Father Acolti himself no hint 
of any thing of the kind was ever heard. He never 
talked of himself. Nor did I ever hear him men- 
tion his religious views, except in very general 
terms. It is said, and perhajDS truly, that the 
Jesuits are all propagandists by profession ; but this 



148 Father Acolti. 

old priest made you forget that he was any thing 
but a genial and lovable old gentleman with fine 
manners and a magnetic presence. 

After my removal to San Francisco, he too was 
transferred to the metropolis, and assigned to duty 
in connection with the Jesuit church and college, 
on JNfarket street. Here again I found his tracks 
wherever I went among the poor and the misera- 
ble. Whether it was a dying foreigner in the sand- 
hills, a young man without money hunting for 
work, a poor widow bewildered and helpless in her 
grief, a woman w^ith a drunken husband and a 
house full of hungry children, a prisoner in the jail, 
or a sick man in the hospital. Father Acolti's hand 
was sure to be found in any scheme of relief. 
Meeting him on the street, you would catch a glow 
from his kind face and friendly voice, and in most 
instances leave him with a smile at some little 
l^leasantry that rippled forth as he stood with his 
hand resting familiarly on your shoulder. He 
loved his little joke, but it was never at the 
expense of any human being, and his merriment 
never went farther than a smile that brightened all 
over his broad face. There was that about him 
that repelled the idea of boisterous mirth. The 
shadow of a great sorrow still lay in the back- 
ground of his consciousness, shading and softening 
his sky, but not obscuring its light. As his step 



Father Acolti. 



149 



grew feebler, and it became evident that his strength 
was failing, this shadow seemed to deepen. There 
was a wistful look in his eyes that spoke of a long- 
ing for Italy, for his buried love, or for heaven. 
There were tears in his eyes when we parted in the 
street for the last time, as he silently pressed my 
hand and walked slowly away. I was not surprised 
when the news reached me soon after that he was 
dead. And the reader will not be surprised that 
in penciling these Sketches the image of this sunny- 
faced old man has looked up to me from the un- 
written sheet so often that he appears here in strange 
company. If I should ever meet him again, I trust 
it will be where no shadow shall dim the light that 
will shine on us both. 




MY FIRST CALIFORNIA CAMP- 
MEETING. 




CALIFORNIA camp-meeting I had never 
rf ^=«\ t seen, and so wlien the eccentric Dr. Can- 
1^ non, who vras dentist, evangelist, and many 
other things all at once, sent me an invitation to be 
present at one that was soon to come off near Val- 
lecito, in Calaveras county, I promptly signified 
my acceptance, and began preparation for the trip. 
It was in 1856, when we occupied the parsonage in 
Sonora that had been bequeathed to us in all its 
peculiar glory by our bachelor predecessors. It 
had one room, which served all tlie purposes of 
I)arlor, library, dining-room, and houdoir. The 
book-case was two dry-goods boxes placed length- 
wise, one above the other. The safe, or cupboard, 
was a single dry-goods box, nailed to the red-wood 
boards, of which the house was built, with cleats 
for our breakfast, dinner, and tea-sets, which, though 
mentioned here in the plural form, were singular in 

(150) 



My First California Camji- meeting. 151 

more tlian one sense of the word. The establish- 
ment boasted a kitchen, the roof of which was less 
than the regulation height of the American soldier, 
the floor of which was made by nature, the one 
window of Avliich had neither sash nor glass, the 
door of which had no lock, but was kept shut by 
a small leather strap and an eight-penny nail and 
its successors. The thieves did not steal from us — 
they couldn't. Dear old cabin on the hill-side! 
It brings up only pleasant memories of a time when 
life was young, and hope was bright. AVhen we 
closed the door of the parsonage, and, sitting behind 
McCarthy & Cooper's two-horse team — one a beau- 
tiful white, the other a shining bay — dashed out of 
town in the direction of the bold and brawling 
Stanislaus, no fear was felt for any valuables left 
behind. The prancing of that spirited white horse 
on the narrow grade that wound its way a thousand 
feet above the bed of the river was a more serious 
matter, suggesting the possibility of an adventure 
that would have j^i'evented the writing of these 
Sketches. The Stanislaus, having its sources among 
the springs and snoAVS of the Sierras, was a clear 
and sparkling stream before the miners muddied it 
by their digging its banks and its bed for gold. It 
cuts its way through a wild and rugged region, 
dashing, foaming, fighting for its passage along nar- 
row passes where the beetling cliifs and toppling 



152 3Iy First California Camp-meeting. 

urags repel the invasion of a human foot. It 
seems in hot haste to reach the valley, and fairly 
leaps down its rocky channel. In high water it 
roars and rushes with terrific violence. But it was 
])(.'liaving quietly as w^e passed it, keeping within 
its narrow channel, along which a number of pa- 
tient Chinamen were working over some abandoned 
gold diggings, wearing satisfied looks, indicating 
success. Success is the rule with the Chinaman. 
He is acquisitive by nature, and thrifty from neces- 
sity. He has taught the conceited Americans some 
astonishing lessons in the matter of cheap living. 
But they are not thankful for the instruction, nor 
are they disposed to reduce it to j^tractice. They 
are not yet prepared to adopt Asiatic ideas of liv- 
ing and labor. The contact of the two civiliza- 
tions produces only friction now. What the future 
may bring forth I will not here prophesy, as this 
has properly nothing to do Avith the camp-meeting. 

An expected circus had rather thrown the camp- 
meeting into the background. The highly-colored 
sensational posters were seen in every conspicuous 
place, and the talk of the hotel-keepers, hostlers, 
and straggling pedestrians, was all about the cir- 
cus. The camp-meeting was a bold experiment, 
under the circumstances. The camp-ground was 
less than a mile from Vallecito, a mining camj^, 
whose reputation was such as to suggest the need 



My First California C am j) -meeting. 153 

of special evangelical influences. It was attacking 
the enemy in his stronghold. The spot selected for 
the encampment was a beautiful one. On a gentle 
slope, in the midst of a grove of live-oaks, a few 
rude tents were pitched, with sides of undressed 
red-wood, and covered with nothing, so that the 
stars could be gazed at during the still hours of the 
cloudless California summer night. The "preach- 
er's stand " was erected under one of the largest of 
the oaks, in front of which were ranged rough, 
backless seats, for the accommodation of the wor- 
shipers. A well of pure Avater was close at hand, 
and a long table, composed of undressed boards, 
was spread under clustering pines conveniently sit- 
uated. Nobody thought of a table-cloth, and the 
crockery used was small in quantity and plain in 
cpiality. 

During the first day and night of the meeting, 
small but well-behaved audiences waited upon the 
word, manifesting apparently more curiosity than 
religious interest. The second night was a solemn 
and trying time. The crowd had rushed to the 
circus. Three or four preachers and about a dozen 
liearers held the camp-ground. The lanterns, swung 
in the oaks, gave a dim, uncertain light, the gusts 
of wind that rose, and fell, and moaned among the 
branches of the trees threatening their extinguish- 
ment every moment. One or two of the lights 



154 Mij First California Camp-meeting, 

flickered out entirely, increasing the gloom and the 
weirdness of the scene. It was a solemn time ; the 
sermon was solemn, the hearers were solemn, and 
there was a solemnity of cadence in the night-wind. 
Everybody seemed gloomy and discouraged but the 
irrepressible Cannon. He was in high glee. 

"The Lord is going to do a great work here," he 
said at the close of the service, rubbing his hands 
together excitedly. 

"What makes you think so?" 

" The devil is busy working against us, and when 
the devil, works the Lord is sure to Avork too. The 
people are all at the circus to-night, but their con- 
sciences will be uneasy. The Holy Spirit will be 
at work with them. To-morrow night you will see 
a great crowd here, and souls will be converted." 

Perhaps there were few that indorsed his logic, 
or shared his faith, but the result singularly veri- 
fied his prophecy. The -circus left the camj). The 
reaction seemed to be complete. A great crowd 
came out next night, the lights burned more 
brightly, the faithful felt better, the preachers took 
fire, penitents were invited and came forward for 
prayers, and for the first time the old camp-meet- 
ing choruses echoed among the Calaveras hills. 
The meeting continued day and night, the crowd 
increasing at every service until Sunday. Many a 
wandering believer, coming in from the hills and 



My First California Camp-meeting. 155 

gulches, had his conscience quickened and his re- 
ligious hopes rekindled, and the little handful that 
sung and prayed at the beginning of the meeting 
swelled to quite an army. 

On Sunday, Bishop Kavanaugh preached to an 
immense crowd. That eloquent Kentuckian "was 
in one of his inspired moods, and swept every thing 
before him. For nearly two hours he held the vast 
concourse of people spell-bound, and toward the end 
of his sermon his form seemed to dilate, his face 
kindled into a sort of radiance, and his voice was 
like a golden trumpet. Aniens and shouts burst 
forth all around the stand, and tears rained from 
hundreds of eyes long unused to the melting mood. 
California had her camp-meeting christening that 
day. Attracted by curiosity, a Digger Indian chief, 
with a number of "bucks" and squaAvs, had come 
upon the ground. The chief had seated himself 
against a tree on the outer edge of the crowd, and 
never took his eyes from the Bishop for a moment. 
I watched him almost as closely as he watched the 
Bishop, for I was curious to know what were the 
thoughts passing through his benighted mind, and 
to see w^hat effect the service would have upon him. 
His interest seemed to increase as the discourse pro- 
ceeded. At length lie showed signs of profound 
emotion ; his bosom heaved, tears streamed down 
his tawny cheeks, and finally, in a burst of ii-re- 



156 My First California Camp-meeting. 

pressible admiration, he pointed to the Bishop, and 
exdaimed, "Capitan!" "Capitan/" The chief 
did not understand English. What Avas it that so 
stirred his soul ? Was it the voice, the gesture, the 
play of feature, the magnetism of the true orator? 
The good Bishop said it was the Holy Spirit — the 
Aviud that bloweth where it listeth. The Sunday- 
night service drew another large audience, and 
culminated in a great victory. The singing and 
prayers were kept up away beyond midnight. The 
impression of one song I shall never forget. The 
Bishop was my bed-fellow. We had retired for 
the night, and were stretched on our primitive 
couch, gazing unobstructed upon the heavenly hosts 
shining on high. 

"Hark! listen to that song," said the Bishop, as 
a chorus, in a clear, bugle-like voice, floated out 
upon the midnight air. The words I do not clearly 
recall ; there was something about 

The sweet fields of Eden, 
On the other side of Jordan, 

and a chorus ending in "hallelujah." I seemed to 
float upward on the wings of that melody, beyond 
the starry depths, through the gates of pearl, until 
it seemed to mingle with the sublime doxologies of 
the great multitude of the glorified that no one can 
number. 

"What opera can equal that? There is a relig- 



My First California CamiJ-mceihig. 157 

ioute melody tluit has a quality of its own which no 
art can imitate." 

The Bisliop's thought was not new, but I had a 
new perception of its truth at that moment. 

One of the converts of this camp-meeting was 
Levi Vanslyke. A wilder nmstang was never 
caught by the gospel lasso. (Excuse this figure — 
it suits the case.) He was wdiat was termed a 
"capper" to a gambling-hell in the towai. Tall, 
excessively angular, jerky in movement, with sin- 
gularly uneven features, his face and figure were 
very striking. He drifted with the crowd to 
the camp-ground one night, and his destiny w^as 
changed. He never went back to gambling. His 
conscience Avas awakened, and his soul mightily 
stirred, by the preaching, prayers, and songs. Amid 
the wonder and smiles of the crowd, he rose from 
his seat, went forward, and kneeled among the pen- 
itents, exhibiting signs of deejj distress. An arrow 
of conviction had penetrated his heart, and brought 
him down at the foot of the cross. There he knelt, 
praying. The services w^re protracted far into the 
night, exhortations, songs, and prayers filling up 
the time. Suddenly Vanslyke rose from his knees 
with a bound, his face beaming with joy, and in- 
dulo-ed in demonstrations which necessitated the 
suspension of all other exercises. He shouted and 
praised God, he shook hands with tlie brethren. 



158 3Iy First California Cam}:^ -meeting. 

he exhorted his late associates to turn from their 
wicked ways — in fact, lie took possession of tlie 
camp-ground, and the regular programme for the 
occasion was entirely superseded. The wild Valle- 
cito "boys" were aAve-struck, and quailed under 
his appeals. 

Vauslyke was converted, a brand plucked from 
the burning. No room was left for dou])t. He 
abandoned his old life at once. Soon he felt inward 
movings to jDreach the gospel, and began to study 
theology. He was a hard student, if not an apt 
one, and succeeded in passing the examinations 
(which in those days were not very rigid), and in 
due time was standing as a watchman on the walls 
of Zion. He was a faithful and useful minister of 
Jesus Christ. There was no backward movement 
in his religious life. He was faithful unto death, 
taking the hardest circuits uncomplainingly, always 
humble, self-denying, and cheerful, doing a work 
for his Master which many a showier man might 
covet in the day when He will reckon with His ser- 
vants. He traveled and preached many years, a 
true soldier of Jesus Christ. He died in great 
peace, and is buried among the hills of Southern 
Oregon. 

An episode connected with this camp-meeting 
was a visit to the Big Tree Grove of Calaveras. 
Every reader is familiar with descriptions of this 



3Iy First California Carnp-mceting. 159 

wonderful forest, but no description can give an 
adequate impression of its solemn grandeur and 
beauty. The ride from Murphy's Camp in the 
early morning ; the windings of the road among 
the colossal and shapely pines ; the burst of won- 
der and delight of some of our party, and the silent 
yet perhaps deeper enjoyment of others, as we rode 
into the midst of the Titanic grove — all this made 
an experience which cannot be transferred to the 
printed page. The remark of the thoughtful wo- 
man who walked by my side expressed the senti- 
ment that was uppermost in my own consciousness 
as I contemplated these wonders of the Almighty's 
handiwork : " God has created one spot where ho 
vj.ll be worshiped, and it is this!" 




THE TRAGEDY AT ALGERINE. 




jOW Algerine Camp got its name I cannot 
l|B|i(.| tell. It was named before my day in Cal- 
©?^<:^ ifornia. The miners called it simply "Al- 
gerine," for short. They had a peculiar way of 
abbreviating all proper names. San Francisco was 
" Frisco," Chinese Camp was " Chinee," and James- 
town was "Jimtown." So Algerine was as many 
syllables as could be spared for this camp, whose 
fame still lingers as one of the richest, rowdiest, 
bloodiest camps of the Southern mines. Situated 
some seven or eight miles from Sonora, if in tlie 
early days it did not rival that lively city in size, 
it surpassed it in the recklessness with which its 
denizens gave themselves up to drinking, fighting, 
gambling, and general licentiousness- The name 
suited the place, whatever may have been its ety- 
mology. It was at the height of its glory for rich 
diggings and bad beliavior in 1851. Lucky strikes 
and wild doings were tlie order of the day. A 

(160) ' 



The Tragtchj at Ahjerine. 161 

tragedy at *'Algcriiie" ceased to excite more than 
a feeble interest — tragedies there had become com- 
monplace. The pistol was the favorite weapon 
with the Algerines, but the monotony of shooting 
w\as now and then broken by a stabbing affair, of 
which a Mexican or native Californian w^as usu- 
ally the hero. It was a disputed point whether the 
revolver or the dirk was the safer and more efiect- 
ive weapon in a free fight. Strong arguments were 
used on both sides of this interesting question, and 
popular opinion in the camp vacillated, taking di- 
rection according to the result of the last encounter. 
With all its wickedness, Algerine had a public 
opinion and moral code of its own. The one sin 
that had no forgiveness was stealing. The remain- 
ing nine of the Ten Commandments nobody seemed 
to remember, but a stand was taken upon the eighth. 
Men that swore, ignored the Sabbath, gambled, got 
drunk, and were ready to use the pistol or knife On 
the slightest pretext, would flame with virtuous 
rage, and clamor for capital punishment, if a sluice 
were robbed,. or the least article of any sort stolen. 
A thief was more completely outlawed than a mur- 
derer. The peculiar conditions existing, and the 
genius of the country, combined to develop this 
anomalous public sentiment, which will be illus- 
trated by an incident that occurred in the year 
above referred to. 
11 



162 The Tragedy at Algerine. 

About 9 o'clock one morning, a messenger was 
seen riding at full speed through the main street 
of Sonora, his horse panting, and white with foam. 
He made his way to the sheriff's office, and on the 
appearance of one of the deputies, cried — well, I 
won't give his exact words, for they are not quota- 
ble ; but the substance of his message w^as that a 
robbery had been committed at Algerine, that a 
mob had collected, and that one of the supposed 
robbers was in their hands. 

" Hurry up, Caj)tain, or you '11 be too late to do 
any good — the camp is just boiling! " 

Captain Stuart, the deputy-sheriff, was soon in 
the saddle, and on the way to Algerine. Stuart 
was a soldierly-looking man, over six feet high, 
square-shouldered, brawny, and with a dash of 
gracefulness in his bearing. He had fought in the 
w ar with Mexico, w as known to be as brave as a 
lion, and was a general favorite. On a wider field 
he has since achieved a wider fame. 

"There they are. Captain," said the messenger, 
pointing to the hill overlooking the camp from the 
north. 

" My God ! it 's only a boy ! " exclaimed Stuart, 
as his eye took in the scene. 

Stripped of all but his shirt and white pants, 
bareheaded and barefooted, with a rope around his 
neck, the other end of whicli was held by a big, 



The Tragedy at Ahjer'uu. 163 

brutal-lookiug fellow in a blue flannel shirt, stood 
the victim of mob fury. He could scarcely be 
more than eighteen years old. His boyish face was 
pale as death, and was turned with a pleading look 
toward the huge fellow who held the rope, and who 
seemed to be the leader of the mob. He had 
beo-o-ed hard for his life, and many hearts had been 
touched with pity. 

" It 's a shame, boys, to hang a child like that," 
said one, with a choking voice. 

" It would be an eternal disgrace to the camp to 
allow it," said another. 

Immediately surrounding the prisoner there was 
a growing party anxious to save him, whose inter- 
cessions had made quite a delay already. But the 
mob were blood-thirsty, and loud in their clamor 
for the hanging to go on. 

" Up Avith him ! " " What are you waiting for ? " 
"Lift him, Bill!" and similar demands were made 
by a hundred voices at once. 

In the midst of this contention Stuart, having 
dismounted, pushed his way by main strength 
through the crowd, and reached the side of the 
prisoner, whose f^ice brightened with hope as the 
tall form of the officer of the law towered above 
him. 

The appearance of the officer seemed to excite 
tlie mob, and a rush was made for the prisoner 



1G4 The Tragedy at Algerine. 

amid a storm of oaths aud yells. Stuart's eye kin- 
dled as he cried— 

"Keep back, you hounds I I'll blow out the 
brains of the first man that touches this boy ! " 

The front rank of the mob paused, keeping in 
check the yelling crowd behind them. The big fel- 
low holding the rope kept his eye on Stuart, and 
seemed for the moment ready to surrender the hon- 
ors of leadership to anybody who was covetous of 
the same. The cowardly brute quailed before a 
brave man's glance. He still held the rope, but 
kept his face averted from his intended victim. 

Stuart, taking advantage of the momentary si- 
lence, made an earnest appeal to the mob. Point- 
ing to the pale and trembling boy, he reminded 
them that he was only a youth, the mere tool and 
victim of the older criminals who had made their 
escape. To liang him would be simply murder, 
and every one who might have a hand in it would 
be haunted by the crime through life. 

" jMen, you are mad when you talk of hanging a 
mere boy like that. Are you savages? Where is 
your manhood ? Instead of murdering him, it 
would be better to send him back to his poor old 
mother and sisters in the States." 

The central group, at this point, presented a 
striking picture. The poor boy standing bare- 
headed in the r<un, looking, in his white garments, 



The Tra(jc<hj at Ahjcrlnc. 165 

as if lie were already shrouded, gazing wistfully 
arouud ; Stuart holding the crowd at bay, standing 
like a rock, his tall form erect, his face flushed, and 
his eye flashing ; the burly leader of the mob, rope 
iu hand, his coarse features expressing mingled fear 
and ferocity ; the faces of the rabble, some touched 
with compassion, others turned upon the prisoner 
threateningly, while the great mass of them wore 
only that look of thoughtless animal excitement 
which makes a mob at once so dangerous and so 
contemptible a thing — all made a scene for an artist. 

Again cries of "Up with him!" "Hang him!" 
" No more palaver ! " were raised on the outer 
ranks of the mob, and another rush was made 
toward the prisoner. Stuart's voice and eye again 
arrested the movement. He appealed to their 
manhood and mercy in the most persuasive and 
impassioned manner, and it was evident that his 
appeals were not without effect on some of the men 
nearest to him. Seeing this, several of the more 
determined ruffians, with oaths and cries of fury, 
suddenly rushed forward with such impetuosity 
that Stuart was borne backAvard by their weight, 
the rope was grasped by several hands at once, and 
the prisoner was jerked with such violence as to 
pull him off his feet. 

At this moment the sound of horses' hoofs was 
heard, and in another instant the reckless dare- 



16G The Tragedy at Algerinc. 

devil, Billy AVortli, mounted on a powerful bay, 
pi&tol in hand, had opened a lane through the 
crowd, and quick as thought he cut the rope that 
bound the prisoner, and, with the assistance of two 
or three friendly hands, lifted him into the saddle 
before him, and galloi)ed off in the direction of 
Sonora. The mob was paralyzed by the audacity 
of this proceeding, and attempted no immediate 
pursuit. The fact is, Worth's reputation as a des- 
perate fighter and sure shof w^as such that none 
of them had any special desire to get within range 
of his revolver. If his virtues had equaled his 
courage, Billy Worth's name would have been one 
of the brightest on the roll of California's heroes. 
At this time he was an attache of the sheriff's office, 
and was always ready for such desperate service. 
He never paused until he had his prisoner safely 
locked in jail at Sonora. 

The mob dispersed slowly and sullenly, and, as 
the sequel proved, still bent on mischief. 

The next morning the early risers in Sonora 
were thrilled with horror to find the poor boy hang- 
ing by the neck from a branch of an oak on the 
hill-side above the City Hotel. The Algerine mol) 
had reorganized, marched into town at dead of 
night, overpowered the jailer, taken out their vic- 
tim, and hung him. By sunrise, thousands, drawn 
by the fascination of horror, had gathered to the 



The Tragedy cit Algcnnc. 



167 



spot. And now that the poor lad was hanging 
there dead, there was only pity felt for his horrid 
fate, and detestation of the crime connnitted by his 
cruel murderers. The body was cut down and ten- 
derly buried, Avomen's hands placing flowers U23on 
his coffin, and women's tears falling upon the cold 
face. 

A singular fiict must be added to this narrative. 
The tree on which the boy Avas hanged was a 
healthy, vigorous young oak, in full leaf. In a 
few days its every leaf had withered! This state- 
ment is made on the testimony of respectable liv- 
ing witnesses, whose reputation for veracity is un- 
questioned. The next year the tree put forth its 
buds and leaves as usual. Tliis fact is left to the 
incredulity, superstition, or scientific inquiry of the 
reader. The tree may be still standing, as a me- 
mento of a horrible crime. 




CALIFORNIA TRAITS. 



||f>(J|ALIFORNIANS of the golden decades 
pwfMl have never been surpassed in spontaneous, 
*%=>!?^. princely generosity. If a miner got hurt 
by a "cave," or premature exi^losion, it only took 
a few hours to raise five hundred or a thousand 
dollars for his widow. The veriest sot or tramp 
had only to get sick to be supplied with all that 
money could buy. There never was another peo- 
ple so open-handed to poverty, sickness, or the 
stranger. They were wild, wicked fellows, and 
made sad havoc of the larger part of the decalogue ; 
but if deeds of charity are put to the credit of sin- 
ners, the Recording Angel smiled with inward joy 
as he put down many an item on the credit side of 
the eternal ledger. This trait distinguished all 
alike — saints and smners, merchants and miners, 
gamblers and politicians, Jews and Gentiles, Yan- 
kees and Southerners, natives and foreigners. Here 
and there would be found a mean, close-fisted fel- 

(168) 



California Traits. 169 

low, "wlio never responded to the apjoeals of that 
heavenly charity -which kept the hearts of those 
feverish, excited, struggling men alive. But such 
a man was made to feel that he was an object of 
intense scorn. The hot-tempered adventurer Avho 
shot down his enemy in fair fight could be toler- 
ated, but not the miserly wretch who hoarded the 
dollar needed to save a fellow-man from want. 
Those Californians of the earlier days showed two 
traits in excess — a princely courage and a princely 
generosity ; and their descendants will have in their 
traditions of them a source of inspiration that will 
serve to perpetuate among them a brave and gen- 
erous manhood. 

A notable exhibition of this spontaneous and 
princely generosity in the Californians took place 
in 1867. The war had left the South decimated, 
broken, impoverished — a land of grief and of graves. 
Already in 1806 the gaunt specter of Famine hov- 
ered over the fated South. The next year a gen- 
eral drought comj^leted the catastrophe. The crops 
failed, there was no money, the war had stripped 
the Southern people of all but their lives and their 
land. It was a dark day. Starvation menaced 
hundreds of thousands of men, w^omen, and chil- 
dren. By telegraph, by newspaper correspondents, 
and by private letters, the distressing news reached 
California. 



170 California Traits. 

A poor widow in Sonoma county, reading in the 
newspapers the accounts given of the suffering in 
the South, sent me six dollars and fifty cents, with 
a note saying she had earned the money by taking 
in washing. She added that it was but a mite, but 
it would help a little, leaving it to my discretion to 
send it where it was most needed. Her modest 
note was pul)lished in The Christian Spectator, of 
which I was then editor. The publication of that 
little note was like touching a spark to dry prairie 
grass. The hearts of the Californians were ready 
for the good work, and the poor Sonoma widow 
showed them the way to do it. From all parts of 
the State money poured in — by hundreds, by thou- 
sands, by tens of thousands of dollars, until directly 
and indirectly over ninety thousand dollars in gold 
was sent to the various relief committees in Balti- 
more, Macon, Nashville, Richmond, and other cities. 
The transmission of all this money cost not a dol- 
lar. The express companies carried the coin free 
of charge, the bankers remitted all charges on ex- 
change — all services were rendered gratuitously. 

The whole movement w^as carried out in true 
Californian style. A single incident will illustrate 
the spirit in which it was done. A week or two 
after the widow's note had been published, I had 
occasion to visit San Jose. It was Saturday, the 
great day for traffic in that flourishing city. The 



California Traits. 171 

streets Avere thronged with vehicles and horses, and 
men and women, sauntering, trading, talking, gaz- 
ing. The great center of resort W'as the junction 
of Santa Clara and First streets. As I was push- 
ing my way through the dense mass of human 
beings at this point, I met Frank Stewart* — fili- 
buster, philosopher, mineralogist, and editor. 

" Wait here a moment," said Stewart to me. 

Springing into an empty express-w^agon, he cried 
"O yes," "O yes," "O yes," after the manner of 
sheriffs. The crowd gathered around him with 
inquiring looks. I stood looking on, w^ondering 
what he meant. 

"Fellow-citizens," said Stewart, "wdiile you are 
here enjoying prosperity and plenty, there is want 
in the homes of the South. Men, women, and chil- 
dren there are starving. They are our ow^n coun- 
trymen — bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh. 
We must send them help, and we must send it 
promptly. I tell you they are starving! In many 
homes this very night hungry children will sob 
themselves to sleep without food! But yonder I 
see an old neighbor, whom you all know," pointing 
to me; "he has recently visited the South, is in 
direct communication with it, and will be able to 

^' Stewart was with Walker in Nicaragua, and wrote an 
entertaining narrative of that romantic and tragic histori- 
-jal episode, entitled "The Last of the Filibusters." 



172 California Traits. 

give ns the facts in the case. Get up here where 
you can be seen and heard, and tell us what you 
know of the distress in the South." 

I attempted a retreat, but in vain. Almost be- 
fore I knew it they had me on the express-wagon, 
talking to the crowd. It was a novel situation to 
me, and I felt awkward at first. The whole pro- 
ceeding was a surprise. But there was sympathy 
and encouragement in the upturned faces of those 
Californians, and I soon felt at ease standing in my 
strange pulpit in the open air.v My audience kept 
growing, the people deserting the street auctioneers, 
the stores, the saloons, and the sidewalks, and press- 
ing close around the express-wagon. After describ- 
ing scenes I had witnessed, I was giving some de- 
tails of the latest news from the distressed locali- 
ties, when a dark-skinned, grave-looking little man 
pressed his way through the crowd, and silently 
laid a five-dollar gold-piece on the seat of the 
express-wagon, at my feet. The effect was electric. 
Another, another, and another followed. Not a 
word was spoken, but strong breasts heaved with 
emotion, and many a bronzed cheek was wet. 1 
could not go on with my speech, but broke down 
completely. Still the money poured in. It seemed 
as if every man in that vast throng had caught the 
feeling of the moment, as the Angel of Mercy hov- 
ered over the spot, and shed the dews of heaven 



California Traits. 173 

from her sliming "vvings. Never, even in the con- 
secrated temple, amid worshiping hundreds, and 
pealing anthems, and fervent prayers, have I felt 
that God was nearer than at that moment. At 
length there Avas a pause. Mr. Spring, the lively and 
good-natured auctioneer, rushed into his store across 
the street, and bringing out a gaily-painted little cask 
of California wine, put it into my hands, saying — 

" Sell this for the benefit of the cause." 

This was indeed a new role to me. Taking the 
cask in my hands, and lifting it up before the crowd, 
I asked — 

" Who will give five dollars for this cask of wine, 
the money to go to help the starving?" 

" I will," said a man from Ohio, standing directly 
in front of me, advancing and laying down the 
money as he sj)oke. 

"Who else will give five dollars for it?" 

"I will"— "And I"— "And I"— "And I"— the 
responses came thick and fast, until the gallon-cask 
of wine had brought in eighty-five dollars. The 
last purchaser, a tall, good-natured fellow from 
Maine, said to me as he turned and walked off — 

"Take the cask home with you, and keep it as a 
memento of this day." 

The crowd scattered, and I gathered and counted 
the silver and gold that lay at my feet. It filled 
the canvas sack furnished by a friendly store- 



174 California Traits. 

keeper, and ran high up into the hundreds. That 
was California — the California in which still lin- 
gered the spirit of the early days. I descended 
from my impromptu rostrum, invoking a benedic- 
tion upon them and their children, and their chil- 
dren's children, and it is reechoed in my heart as I 
write these lines, thousands of miles away on the 
banks of the Cumberland in Tennessee. 

It ought to be added here that, in this work of 
relief for the South, Northern men and women 
were not a whit behind those from the South. The 
first subscriber to the fund, and the most active 
worker in its behalf in San Francisco, was Thomas 
H. Selby, a New-Yorker of noble and princely 
spirit, whose subsequent death robbed California 
of one of its richest jewels. I am glad to claim 
national kinship with such men and women. 

On the afternoon before Thanksgiving-day, in 
eighteen hundred and sixty-something, two little 
girls came into my office, on Washington street. 
One was a chubby, curly-headed little beauty, about 
five years old. The other was a crippled child, 
about ten, with a pale, suffering face, and earnest, 
pleading blue eyes. She walked with crutches, and 
was out of breath when she got to the top of the 
long, narrow staircase in the third story of Reese's 
building, where I dispensed "copy" for the printer 
and school law for the pedagogues in those days. 



Calif orrda Traits. 175 

The older girl handed me a note whieli she had 
brought ill her thiu, white hand. I opened the 
paper, and read these ^vords — 

" I am lying sick on Larkiii street, near Sacra- 
mento, and there is not a mouthful to eat or cent 
of money in the house." 

I recognized the signature as that of a man I 
had Diet at the Napa Springs two years before ; he 
was /hen, as now, an invalid. 

I took my hat and cane, and followed the chil- 
dren. It was painful work for the crij^pled girl, 
climbing the hill in the face of the heavy wind 
from the sea. Often she had to pause and rest a 
few moments, panting for breath, and trembling 
from W'Cakness. When we reached the house, 
which was a rickety shanty, partly buried in the 
sand, a hollows-eyed, hopeless-looking woman met 
us at the door. She had the dull, weary look of a 
woman worn out wdth care and loss of rest. On a 
coarse bedstead lay the invalid. As soon as he saw 
me he pulled the quilt over his head, and gave way 
to his feelings. His sobs fairly shook the frail ten- 
ement. Looking around, I was shocked to see the 
utter absence of every thing necessary to the com- 
fort of a family. They had j^arted w'ith every arti- 
<jle that would bring a little money with which to 
buy food. Where the children, five in number, 
slei:>t I could not conceive. Making a short stav, 



170 California Traits. 

I went forth to send them relief. A genial, red- 
bearded New Hampshire man kept a grocery and 
provision store on the corner of Jackson and Stock- 
ton streets. I liked him, and sometimes patron- 
ized him. I gave him the address of the needy 
family, and instructed him to send them every 
thing they needed. Before sunset a heavy-laden 
wagon deposited such stores of eatables at the sand> 
hill shanty as made the inmates thereof wonder. 
When the bill was presented, it was evident that 
lie had not charged half-price. I knew my man. 

The next day my purpose was to go to Calvary 
Church and hear a sermon from the brilliant Dr. 
Charles Wadsworth, with whom striking and elo 
quent thanksgiving-sermons had long been a spe- 
cialty. On my way to church I thought of the 
helpless family in the sand-hills, and I resolved to 
change my thanksgiving programme. The thought 
was suggested to my mind that I would go up one 
side of Montgomery street and down the other, and 
ask every acquaintance I should happen to meet 
for a contribution to my proteges on Larkin street. 
The day was lovely, and all San Francisco was on 
the streets. (You must go to California to learn 
how delightful a November day can be.) Before 
I had gone two squares so much specie had been 
given me that I found it necessary to get a sack to 
hold it. On the corner of California street I came 



California Traits. 177 

upon Colonel Eyre and a knot of other brokers, ten 
in number, every one of whom gave me a five-dol- 
lar gold-piece. By the time I had gotten back to 
my starting-point on the corner of Wasliington 
street, the canvas sack was full of gold and silver. 
I took it at once to Larkin street. 

The sad, hollow^-eyed Avoman met me at the door. 
I handed her the sack — she felt its weight, began 
to tremble, staggered to the bed, and sinking down 
upon it, burst into a fit of violent weeping. The 
reaction was too sudden for her — poor, worn creat- 
ure! The sick man also cried, and the children 
cried — and I am not sure my own eyes were dry. 
I left them very soon, and w^ended my way home- 
ward to my cottage on the western edge of Russian 
Hill, above the sea. My thanksgiving-dinner w^as 
enjoyed that day. 

About seven years afterward a man overtook me 
on the street in San Francisco, and grasj^ing my 
hand warmly, called me by name: 

"Don't you know me? Don't you remember 
the man to whom you brought that money on 
thanksgiving-day, seven years ago? I'm the man. 
That money made my fortune, I was able to ob- 
tain medicines and comforts wdiich befoi-e I had 
not the means to buy ; my mind was relieved of its 
load of terrible mental anxiety ; my health began 
to improve from that day, and now I am a well 
12 



178 California Traits. 

man, prosperous in business, and with as happy a 
family around me as there is on earth." 

What more he said, as he held and pressed my 
hand, need not be repeated. 

If we search for the cause of this Californian 
trait of character, perhaps it may be found in the 
fact that the early Californians were mostly ad- 
venturers. (Please remember that this word has 
a good as w^ell as a bad sense.) Their own vicissi- 
tudes and wrestlings with fortune gave them a 
vivid realization of the feelings of a fellow-man 
struggling with adversity. It was a great Brother- 
hood of Adventure, from whose fellowship no man 
was excluded. They w^oukl fight to the death over 
a disputed claim ; they would too often make the 
strong hand the test of right ; they gave their ani- 
mal passions free play, and enacted bloody trage- 
dies. But they never shut their purses against the 
distressed, nor turned a deaf ear to the. voice of 
sorrow. Doubtless the ease and rapidity with 
which fortunes w^ere made in the early days also 
contributed to j^i'OtUice this free-handedness. A 
man who made, or hoped to make, a fortune in a 
week, did not stop to count the money he spent on 
his schemes, his passions, or his charities. Cases 
came to my knowledge in which j^rincely fortunes 
were squandered by a week of debauch with cards, 
wine, and women. 



CaUfornUi Traits. 179 

A sailor struck a " pocket " on Wood's Creek, 
and took out forty thousand dollars in two days. 
He went into town, deposited the dust, drew sev- 
eral thousand dollars in coin, and entered upon a 
debauch. In a day or two the coin was exhausted, 
the gamblers, saloon-keepers, and bad women hav- 
ing divided it between them. Half-crazed with 
drink, he called for his gold-dust, and taking it to 
the " Long Tom," he began to bet heavily against 
a faro-bank. Staking handfuls of the shining dust, 
he alternately Avon and lost, until, becoming excited 
beyond control, he staked the entire sack of gold- 
dust, valued at twenty-eight thousand dollars, on a 
single card, and — lost, of course. He Avent to bed 
and slept off the fumes of his drunkenness, got 
money enough to take him to San Fran cisco,W' here 
he shij^ped as a common sailor on a vessel bound 
for Shanghai. He expressed no regret for the loss 
of his treasure, but boasted that he had a jolly 
time while it lasted. 

In Sonora there was a rough, whisky-loving fel- 
low, named Bill F , who divided his time be- 
tween gambling, drinking, and deer-hunting. One 
day he took his rifle and sallied forth in search of 
venison. He wandered among the hills for several 
hours without finding any game. Reaching a pro- 
jection of Bald Mountain, a few^ hundred yards 
Ix'low the sunnnit, tired and hot, he threw himself 



180 California Tixdts. 

ou the ground to rest under the shade of a stunted 
tree. In an idle way he began to dig into the rot- 
ten quartz with his hunting-knife, thinking such 
thoughts as would come into the mind of such a 
harum-scarum fellow under the .circumstances. 

^' What 's this ? " he suddenly exclaimed. " Hur- 
rah ! I have struck it ! It 's gold ! It 's gold ! " 

And so it was gold. Bill had struck a " pocket," 
and a rich one. His deer-hunt was a lucky one 
after all. Marking well the spot, he lost no time 
in hurrying back to Sonora, where he provided 
himself with a strong, iron-bound water-bucket, and 
then returned with his treasure, wdiich amounted to 
forty thousand dollars. The "pocket" was ex- 
hausted. Though much labor and money were 
expended in the search, no more gold could be 
found there. Bill took his gold to town, and was 
the hero of the hour. But one way of celebrating 
his good fortune occurred to his mind. He went 
on a big spree — whisky, cards, etc. He was a 
quarrelsome and ugly fellow when drinking. The 
very next day he got into a fight at the City Hotel, 
and was shot dead, leaving the most of his bucket- 
ful of gold-dust unspent. The time and manner of 
Bill's death was, in its result, the best thing known 
of his history. A strange thing happened : the 
money found its way to his mother in Pennsylva- 
i)ia, every dollar of it. Public sentiment aided the 



California Traits. 181 

public adiniiiistrator in doing his duty in tliis case. 
It was a common saying among tlie Californians in 
those days, that when an estate was taken charge 
of by that functionary, the legal heirs had small 
show of getting any part of it. The temjDtation 
was great in many cases. Men died suddenly, 
leaving neither partner nor kinsman to look after 
the large possessions they left behind, and these 
vultures were not slow in finding their prey. Pub- 
lic sentiment was lax at this point, and perhaps 
naturally. Living men were too busy and too 
much excited with their schemes to think much of 
the estates of dead ones, and so if a dishonest man 
got into the office of public administrator, " the 
devil of opportunity" was sure to meet and over- 
come him. It is but just to say, however, that 
there was a latent moral sense among the Califor- 
nians that never failed to condemn the faithless 
public servant. They did not take time to pros- 
ecute him, but they made him feel that he was 
despised. 



CALIFORNIA AVEDDINGS. 




.F the histories connected "with the California 
weddings that I have attended could he Avrit- 
ten out in full, Avhat tragedies, comedies, and 
farces "svould excite the tears and laughter of the 
susceptible reader ! Orange blossoms and pistols 
are mingled in the matrimonial retrospect. The 
sound of merry ^vedding-bells, the wails of heart- 
broken grief, and the imprecations of desperate 
hate, echo in the ear of memory as I begin this 
chapter on California Weddings. Nothing else 
could give a better picture of the vanishing phases 
of the social life of California. But prudence and 
good taste restrain my pencil. Too many of the 
parties are still living, and the subject is too deli- 
cate, to allow entire freedom of delineation. A 
guarded glance is all that may be allowed. No 
real names will be called. 

INIounted on "Old Frank" one clear, bracing 
morning in 1856, I was galloping along the high- 

(182; 



California Weddings. 188 

way between Peppermint Gulch and Sonora, "when 

I overtook a hiwyer named G , who was noted 

for his irascible temper and too ready disposition 
to fight, but whose talents and energy had w'on for 
him a leading position at the bar. It was an ex- 
hilarating ride as we dashed on at a swinging pace, 
the cool breeze kissing our faces, the blue sky 
above, the surrounding hills softened by shadows 
at their bases and glowing with sunshine on their 
tops. The reader who has never had a gallop 
among the foot-hills of California in clear weather 
has missed one of life's supremest pleasures. The 
air is electric, every nerve tingles, the blood seems 
turned to ether. You feel as you do when you fly 
in dreaming. It is not merely pleasure, it is ecstasy ! 

But little was said by us. The pace was too 
rapid for conversation, and neither of us w^as in the 
mood for commonplaces. My fellow-horseman's 
face, usually wearing half a sneer and half a frown, 
bore an expression I had never seen on it before. 
It was an expression of gentleness and thoughtful- 
ness, and it became him so well that I found my- 
self frequently turning to look at him. Suddenly 
reining in his horse, he cried to me — 

" Stop, parson ; I have something to say to you." 

Checking "Old Frank," I waited for him to 
come up with me. 

"Will you be at home to-morrow?" 



184 Calif or nia Weddings. 

"Yes, I shall be at home." 

"Then come to this address at 1 o'clock, pre- 
pared to perform a marriage ceremony." 

Penciling the address on a slip of paper, he 
handed it to me, and we rode on, resuming the 
rapid gallop which was the only gait known to the 
early Californians. 

The next day I was punctual to the appointment. 
In the parlor of one of the coziest little cottages in 
the lower part of tlie city I found a number of 
lawyers, and other well-known citizens, with sev- 
eral women. The room was tastefully decorated 
with flowers of exquisite odor. A beautiful little 
girl about four years old came into the apartment. 
Richly and tastefully dressed, perfectly formed, 
elastic and graceful in her movements, with dark 
eyes, brilliant and large, and cheeks glowing with 
health, she was a sweet picture of fresh and inno- 
cent childhood. She looked around upon the 
guests, shyly declining the caresses that were of- 
fered her. Taking a seat by one of the women, 
she sat silent and wondering. 

"Isn't she a perfect beauty! "said Dr. A , 

whose own subsequent marriage made a strange 
chapter in the social annals of the place. 

" Yes, she is a little queen, and I am glad for her 
sake that this little aflfliir is to come off," said an- 
other. 



Calif ornia Weddings. 185 

lu a few minutes G entered the room with 

a woman on his arm. She was fair and slender, 
Avith a weak mouth and nervous manner. Traces 
of tears were on her cheeks, but she was smiling. 
The company rose as I advanced to meet them, 
and remained standing while the solemn ceremony 
was being pronounced which made them husband 
and wife. When the last words were said, they 

kissed each other, and then G , yielding to a 

sudden impulse, caught up the little girl in his 
arms, and almost smothered her with passionate 
kisses. Not a word was spoken, but many eyes 
w'ere wet. 

The guests were soon led into another room, in 
which a sumptuous repast was spread, and when I 
left champagne corks were popping, and it was evi- 
dent that the lately silent company had found their 
tongues. Toasts, songs, and speeches were said and 
sung in honor of the joyful event just consummated 
— ^the marriage of this couple which ought to have 
taken place five years sooner. A little child had 
led the sinners back into the path from which 
through passion and weakness they had strayed. 

It was after 9 o'clock one night in the fall of the 
same year that, hearing a knock at the door, I 
opened it, and found that my visitor was Edward 

C , a young man who was working a mining 

claim on Dragoon Gulch, near town. 



186 California Weddings. 

"Auuie B and I intend to get married to- 
night, and we want you to perform the ceremony," 
lie said, not waiting for ordinary sahitations. 

"Isn't this a strange and sudden affair?" 

"Yes, it is a runaway match. Annie is under 
age, and her guardian will not give his consent." 

" If that is the case, you will have to go to some- 
body else. The law is plain, and I cannot violate 
it." 

" When you know all the facts, you will think 
differently." 

He then proceeded to give me the facts in the 
case, which, briefly told, were these : He and Annie 

B loved each other, and had been enirao-ed for 

several months, with the understanding that they 
were to be married when she should come of age. 
Annie had a few thousand dollars in the hands of 
her brother-in-law, who was also her legal guard- 
ian. This brother-in-law had a brother, a drunken, 
gand)ling, worthless fellow, whom he wished Annie 
to marry. She loathed him, and repelled the prop- 
osition with indignation and scorn. The brother 
and brother-in-law persisted in urging the hateful 
suit, having, it was thought, fixed a covetous eye 
on Annie's convenient little patrimony. Force 
had even been used, and Annie was deprived of 
her liberty and locked in her room. Her repug- 
nance to the fellow increased the nuu*o lie ti'icd to 



California Weddings. 187 

make liiniself agreeable to her. A stormy scene 
had taken place that day. 

" I will never marry him — never ! I ^Yill die 
iirstl" Annie had exclaimed in a burst of passion, 
at the close of a long altercation. 

"You are a foolish, undutiful girl, and will be 
made to do it ! " was the angry reply of the broth- 
er-in-law as he turned the key in the door and 
closed the interview. 

Late that afternoon Annie was on the street with 
her sister, and meeting her lover, they arranged to 
be married at once. She went to the house of a 
friendly family, while he undertook to get a minis- 
ter and make other preparations for the event. 

" This is the situation," said the expectant bride- 
groom. " The only way by which I can get the 
right to protect Annie is to marry her. If you 
will not perform the ceremony, we'll get a justice 
of the peace to do it. Annie shall never go back 
to that house. We intend to be married this night, 
come what may ! " 

I confess I liked his spirit, and my sympathies 
responded to the appeal made to them. He seemed 
to read as much in my face, for he added in an off- 
hand way — 

" Get your hat and come along. They are all 
waiting for you at D 's." 

On reaching the house I found tliat quite a lit- 



188 California Weddings. 

tic company of intimate friends liad been sum- 
moned, and the diminutive sitting-room was crowded 
with men, women, and children. The bride -vvas 
seated in the midst, a pretty, blue-eyed, fair-com- 
plexioned girl of seventeen. As I looked at her, I 
could not blame her lover for risking something for 
such a prize. Women were then at a premium in 
the mines, and such lovely specimens as Annie 
would have been in demand anywhere. She blushed 
and smiled at the rather rough jokes of which she 
was made the subject by the good-natured com- 
pany present, and when she stood up with C 

to take the vows that were to unite them for life, 
they were a handsome and happy pair. 

The ceremony finished, the congratulations Avere 
hearty, the blushing bride having to stand a regu- 
lar osculatory fire, according to the custom. Re- 
freshments were then distributed, and seated on the 
bed, on chairs, stools, and boxes, drafted for the 
occasion, the delighted guests gave themselves up 
to social enjoyment. 

"What is that?" exclaimed a dozen voices at 
once, as the most terrific sounds burst forth all 
around the house, as if Pandemonium had broken 
loose. The bride, Avhose nerves had already been 
under high tension all day, fainted, the wonaen 
screamed, and the children yelled iwith fright. 

"It's only a charivari^' {shivaree, Anglice), said 



California Weddings. 189 

the tall, red-headed head of the fiimily, grinning. 
'•I ^vas afraid the boys would find out what was 



going on 



In the meantime the discord raged outside. 
It seemed as if every thing that could make a par- 
ticularly unpleasant sound had been brought into 
ggj.yice — tin pans, cracked horns, crippled drums, 
squeaking whistles, fiddles out of tune, accordi- 
ons not in accord, bagpipes that seemed to know 
that they nuist do their worst— the whole culmi- 
nating in the notes of a single human voice, the 
most vile and discordant ever heard. It was 
equally impossible not to be angry, and not to 
laugh.^ The bridegroom, an excitable man of Celt- 
ic blood, taking the demonstration as an insult, 
threatened to shoot into the crowd of musicians, 
but was persuaded to adopt a milder course, 
namely, to treat. That was the law in the mines, 
and it was a bold man who would try to evade it. 
The only means of escape was utter secrecy, and 
somehow or other it is next to impossible to con- 
ceal an impending wedding. It is a sweet secret 
that the birds of the air will whisper, and it be- 
comes the confidential possession of the entire com- 
munity. Opening the door, C was greeted by 

a cheer, the music ceasing for the moment. 

"Come, boys, let's go to the Placer Hotel and 
take somet"hing," said he, forcing a cheerful tone. 



190 California Weddings. 

Three cheers for the bridegroom and l)ride were 
proposed and given with a will, and the party filed 
away in the darkness, their varions instruments of 
discord emitting desultory farewell notes, the last 
heard being the tootings of a horn that seemed to 
possess a sort of ventriloquial quality, sounding as 
if it were blown under ground. 

The brother-in-laAV made no opposition to the 
wedding. Public opinion was too clearly against 
him. All went smoothly with the young married 
couple. It was a love-match, and they were con- 
tent in their little one-roomed cottage at the foot of 
the hill. When I last heard from them they were 
living near the same spot, poor but happy, with a 
family of eleven children, ranging -from a fair- 
haired girl of nineteen, the counterpart of Annie 

B in 1856, to a chubby little Californian of 

three summers, who bears the image and takes the 
name of his father. 

While busily engaged one day in mailing the 
weekly issue of the Pacific Methodist, at the office 
near the corner of Montgomery and Jackson streets, 
San Francisco, a dusty, unshaved man with a 
slouched hat came into the room. His .manner 
was sheepish and awkward, and my first impres- 
sion was that he wanted to borrow money. There 
is a peculiar manner about habitual borrowers 
which is readily recognized after some experience 



California Weddings. 191 

^vitIl them. My visitor snt and toyed with liis hat, 
making an occasional remark about the weather 
and other commonphices. I answered affably, and 
kept on writing. At length, with a great effort, he 
said — 

"Do you know anybody about here that can 
marry folks?" 

I answered in the affirmative. 

"May be you mought do it? " he said inquiringly. 

I told him I thought I " mought," being a min- 
ister of the gospel. 

"Well, come right along with me. The woman 
is waiting at the hotel, and there 's no time to lose 
— the boat leaves at 2 o'clock." 

Seeing me making some adjustment of a disor- 
dered neck-tie, he said impatiently — 

" Do n't wait to fix up — I tell you the boat leaves 
at 2 o'clock!" 

I followed him to the Tremont House, and as 
we entered the parlor he said — 

" Git uj), old lady ; that thing can be put through 
now " — addressing a very stout, middle-aged woman 
with a frow^zy head, sitting near a window. 

The lady addressed in this off-hand way rose to 
her feet and took her place by the side of the not 
very bridegrooraish gentleman wdio had been my 
conductor. 

"Do you not want any Avitnesses?" I asked. 



192 California Weddings. 

"We hiiveii't time to wait for witnesses — the 
boat will leave at 2 o'clock," said the man. "Go 
on ^vith your ceremony." 

I began the ceremony, she looking triumphant 
and defiant, and he subdued and despondent. 
There were two children in the room — a freckled- 
faced boy and a girl, the boy minus an eye, and 
their peculiar behavior attracted my attention. 
They kept circling around the bridal party, eyeing 
me curiously and resentfully, the one eye of the boy 
giving him a look both comic and sinister. The 
woman's resj^onses were loud and strong, the man's 
feeble and low. Evidently he did not enjoy the 
occasion — he was marrying under inward protest. 
(The landlord's explanation accounted for that, 
but it is withheld here.) 

"What do you charge for that?" said the bride- 
groom, as I concluded the ceremony. 

I made some conventional remark about "the 
pleasure of the occasion being an ample compensa- 
tion," or words to that effect. In the meantime he 
had with some difficulty untied a well-worn buck- 
skin purse, from which he took a ten-dollar gold- 
piece which he tendered me with the remark — 

"AVillthatdo?" 

I took it. It would not have been respectful to 
decline. 

" You may go now," said the newly-married man ; 



California Weddings. 193 

"the boat will start at 2 o'clock, and we must be 
off." 

The whole transaction did not take more than 
ten minutes. I trust the bridal party did not miss 
that boat. The one-eyed boy gave me a malevo- 
lent look as I started down the stairs. 

One day in 1869 a well-known public man came 
to my office and asked a private interview. Taking 
him into the rear room, and closing the door, I 
invited him to unfold his errand. 

" There is trouble between my w^ife and me. The 
fact is, I have done wrong, and she has found it 
out. She is a good woman, but very peculiar, and 
if something is not done speedily I fear she will 
become deranged. I am uneasy about her now. 
She says nothing will satisfy her but for me to sol- 
emnly repeat, in the presence of a minister of the 
gospel, the marriage vows I have violated. I am 
willing to do any thing I can to satisfy her. Will 
you name an hour for us to call at your office for 
the purpose of being remarried?" 

"The suggestion is such a strange one that I 
must have time to consider it. Come back at four 
this afternoon, and I will give you an answer." 

I laid the case before a shrewd lawyer of my 
acquaintance, and asked his advice. 

*' Marry them, of course," said he at once. "The 
ceremony has no legal qualitv whatever, but it is 
13 



194 California Weddings . 

the business of a clergyman to minister to a mind 
diseased, and it is your duty to comply with the 
unhappy "svoman's wish." 

The gentleman returned at four, and I told him 
to come at ten the next morning, promising to per- 
form the wishcd-for ceremony. 

They came punctual to the minute. Excluding 
a number of visitors, I locked my office door on 
the inside, and gave my attention to the strange 
business before me. They both began to weep as 
I began solemnly to read the marriage service. 
AVliat tender recollections of earlier and happier 
days crowded upon their minds, I know not. Their 
emotion increased, and they were sobbing in each 
other's arms when I had finished. She was radi- 
ant through her tears, while he looked like a re- 
penting sinner who had received absolution. The 
form for the celebration of the office of holy matri- 
mony, as laid down in the Ritual of my Church, 
never sounded so exquisitely beautiful, or seemed 
so impressive before ; and when he put a twenty- 
dollar piece in my hand, and departed, I thought 
remarriage might be wise and ^^roper under some 
circumstances. 

I had the pleasure of officiating at the nuptials 
of a goodly number of my colored friends in San 
Francisco, from about 1857 to 1861. One of these 
occasions impressed me particularly. A venerable 



California Weddings. 195 

black man, who was a deacon in the colored Bap- 
tist Church on Dupont street, called at my office 
with a message requesting me to visit a certain 
number on Sacramento street, at a given hour, for 
the purpose of uniting his brother and a colored 
lady ill marriage. Remembering the crude old 
English couplet which says that 

When a Avedding 's in the case, 
All else must give place, 

I did not fail to be on time. The company were 
assembled iu the large basement-room of a sub- 
stantial brick house. A dozen or fifteen colored 
people were present, and several white ladies had 
gathered in the hall to witness the important cere- 
mony. When the bridegroom and bride presented 
themselves, I was struck Avith their appearance 
The bridegroom was a little old negro, not less than 
seventy years old, with very crooked legs, short 
forehead, and eyes scarcely larger than a pea, w ith 
a weird, " varmint-like " face, showing that it would 
not take many removes to trace his pedigree back 
to Guinea. The bride was a tall and well-formed 
young black woman, scarcely twenty years old, 
whose hair (or wool) was elaborately carded and 
arranged, and who wore a white dress, with a large 
red rose in her bosom. The aged bridegroom 
hardly reached her shoulders as she stood by him 
in gorgeous array. They made a ludicrous couple, 



196 California Weddings, 

and I observed a smile on the faces of the intelli- 
gent colored people standing around. He was the 
queerest bridegroom I had ever met, as he stood 
there peering about him with those curious little 
eyes. The bride herself seemed to take in the 
comic element of the occasion, for her fat face wore 
a broad grin. I began the ceremony, keeping 
down any tendency to unseemly laughter by throw- 
ing extra emphasis and solemnity into my voice. 
This is a device to which others have resorted 
under similar circumstances. Mastering my risi- 
bles, I was proceeding with elevated voice and 
special emphasis, when the bridegroom, looking up 
at me with those little beads of eyes, broke in with 
this remark, chuckling as he spoke — 

" I ain't scared — Ise been ^long here befoJ' 
It was the first time I ever broke down in a seri- 
ous service. We all laughed, the bridegroom and 
bride both joining in heartily, and the tittering did 
not subside until the ceremony was ended. Evi- 
dently the old sinner had a history. How often he 
had been married — after a fashion — it would have 
been hazardous to guess. No doubt he had been 
there before. 



NORTH BEACH, SAN FRANCISCO. 



|lijf|ORTH BEACH, in its gentle mood, is as 
I) [if I quiet as a Quaker maiden, and as lovely; 
^~ -^ but when fretted by the rude sea-wind, it 
is like a virago in her tantrums. I have looked 
upon it at the close of a bright, clear day, fasci- 
nated by the changing glories of a gorgeous sunset. 
The still ships seemed asleep upon the placid 
waters. Above the Golden Gate hung a drapery 
of burning clouds, almost too bright for the naked 
eye. Tamalpais," towering above the Marin hills, 
wrapped in his evening robe of royal purple, sat 
like a king on his throne. The islands in sight, 
sunlit and calm, seemed to be dreaming in the soft 
embrace of the blue waters. Above the golden 

^A lofty peak of the coast-range that slioots its bare sum- 
mit high into the sky nortli of the bay, and within a few 
miles of the Golden Gate, from wliich tlie view is one of 
marvelous scope and surpassing beauty. 

(107) 



198 North Beach, San Francisco. 

glow of the breezy Contra Costa hills the sky 
blushed rosy red, as if conscious of its own charms. 
As the sun sank into the Pacific in a blaze of splen- 
dor, the bugle of Fort Alcatraz, pealing over the 
waters, told that the day was done. And then the 
scene gradually changed. The cloud-fires that 
blazed above the Gate of Gold died out, the pur- 
ple of Tamalpais deepened into blackness, in the 
thickening twilight the sunlit islands faded from 
sight, the rose-tinted sky turned into sober gray, 
the stars came out one by one, and a night of 
beauty followed a day of brightness. Many a time, 
fi-om my bay-window, on such evenings as this, 
have I seen young men and maidens walking side 
by side, or hand in hand, along the beach, whisper- 
ing words that only the sea miglit hear, and utter- 
ing vows that only the stars might witness. Here 
I have seen the weary man of business linger as if 
he were loth to leave a scene so quiet, and go back 
to the din, and rush, and worry of the city. And 
pale, sad-fViced women in black have come alone to 
weep l)y the sea-side, and have gone back with the 
traces of fresh tears upon their cheeks, and the 
light of renewed hope in their eyes. On briglit 
mornings, new-married couples, ciind)ing the hill 
whose western declivity overlooks the Golden Gate 
and the vast Pacific, have felt that the innncnsity 
and calm of the ocean were emblematic of the 



North Beach, San Francisco. 199 

serene and immeasurable happiness tliey had in 
each other. They might remember tliat even that 
Pacific sea is swept by storms, and tliat beneath its 
quiet waters lies many a noble ship, wrecked on its 
way to i)ort. But they felt no fear, for there is no 
shipwreck of true love, human or divine ; it always 
survives the storm. 

Korth Beach, in its stormy mood, liad also its 
fascination for the storm-tossed, and the desolate, 
and the despairing. It Avas hither that Ralston 
hurried on that fatal day when the crash came. 
His death wi\s like his life. He was a strong swim- 
mer, but he ventured too far. The wind sweeping 
in through the Golden Gate chill and angry, the 
white-capped waters of the bay in wild unrest, the 
gathering fog darkening the sky, were all symbolic 
of the days of struggle and the nights of anguish 
that preceded the final tragedy. He died strug- 
gling. If he had come out of that wrestle with the 
sea alive, he would have been on his feet to-day, 
for he embodied in himself the energy, the dash, 
the invincible courage of the true Californian. 
Ralston did not commit suicide. He was not a 
man of that type. 

Sitting in my bay-window above the beach one 
stormy evening about sunset, my attention was 
arrested by the movements of a man sitting on the 
rocks in the edge of the water, where the spray 



200 North Beach, San Francisco. 

drenclied his person every time a wave broke 
against the shore. Suddenly he took a pistol from 
his pocket, placed the muzzle against his head, and 
fired. I sprang to my feet as he tumbled forward 
into the Avater, and rushed down the long steps, 
and reached the s})ot just as a refluent wave bore 
him back to the beach. Dragging him out of the 
water, it was found that he w^as still breathing, and 
had a faint pulse. The blood was oozing from an 
ugly bullet wound back of his right ear — the ball 
had struck the bone and slightly glanced. Brandy 
was brought, which he swallowed in large quanti- 
ties ; his pulse grew quicker and stronger, and look- 
ing around upon the curious and pitying group 
that had gathered about him, he seemed suddenly 
to comprehend the whole situation. With a des- 
perate effort he rose to his feet, exclaiming — 

"Why didn't you let me alone? If you had, it 
Avould all have been over now. Am I doomed to 
live against my will ? The very sea refuses me a 
grave ! " 

I made some remark, with the view to calm and 
encourage him. 

" You mean well, and I ought to thank you, sir ; 
but you have done me an ill turn. I want to die, 
and got out of it all." 

"What is the trouble, my friend?" I inquired, 
the question prompted by pity and curiosity. 



North Beach, San Francisco. 201 

He turned stuldenly, stared at me a moment, 
and said fiercely — 

" Kever mind what my trouble is. It is what death 
only can relieve. Why didn't you let me die?" 

He was a heavy-set man of fifty, with iron-gray 
whiskers, a good, ojien, intelligent face, and neatly 
dressed in a suit of gray cloth. 

He reeled as he spoke, and would have fallen 
had he not been supported by kind hands. He 
was taken to the hospital, Avhere the bullet was 
extracted from his head, and he got well. Who 
he was, and what was his story, was never found 
out. He kei>t his secret. 

About sunrise one morning, looking out of my 
window, I saw a crowd huddled around some object 
on the beach. Their subdued behavior suggested 
a tragedy. The North Beach rabble, in its ordi- 
nary mood, is rather noisy and demonstrative. 
The hoodlum reaches his perfection here. The 
hoodlum is a young Californian in the intermedi- 
ate stage between a wharf-rat and a desperado, 
combining all the bad qualities of both. He is 
dishonest, lewd, insolent, and unspeakably vulgar. 
He glories in his viciousness, and his swagger is 
inimitable. There is but one thing about him that 
has the semblance of a virtue, and that is his cour- 
ageous fidelity to his fellow-hoodlums. He will 
defend one of his kind to the death in a street-fight, 



202 North Beach, San Francisco. 

or swear to any thing to help him iu a court of jus- 
tice. Tliis element is usually largely represented 
in any popular gathering at North Beach, but they 
were not numerous at that early hour. They run 
late at night, and are not early risers. But the 
women that sold beer on the flat, the men that 
drove dirt-carts, the flshermen who flslied in the 
bay, and the crowd of fellows that lived nobody 
knew Avhere, or how, that appear as by magic when 
an exciting event calls them forth, were all there 
as I made my way through the throng and reached 
the object that had drawn them to the spot. 

It was a man hanging by his neck from the high- 
est tier of a lot of dama2:ed hav-bales that had 
been unloaded on the beach. He had come out 
there in the night, taken a piece of hay-rope, ad- 
justed it to his neck with great skill, fastened it to 
a topmost bale of hay, and then leaped into eter- 
nity. It was a horrid spectacle. The man was a 
Frenchman, who had slei:)t two nights in a recess 
of the hay-pile. The popular verdict was, insan- 
ity or starvation. From a look at the ghastly face, 
and poor, thin frame, with its tattered garments 
fluttering iu the breeze, you might think it was 
both. The previous night had been colder than 
usual ; perhaps hanging was to his mind a shorter 
and easier death than freezing. Nobody knows — • 
he, too, kept his secret. 



North Beach, San Francisco. 203 



Almost opposite my bay-window was a large 
rock, which was nearly covered by the tide at high 
water, and over which the surf broke with great 
violence when a north wind drove the waters upon 
the beach. The North Beach breakers sometimes 
run so high as to send their spray over the high 
embankment of Bay street, and their thunder 
makes sublime music on a stormy night. One day 
when the bay was lashed into anger by a strong 
wind from the north-west, and the surf rolling in 
heavily, a slender young girl W'as seen hurrying 
along the beach with downcast look and a veil 
over her face. Without pausing, she waded through 
the surf and climbed the rock, and lifting her veil 
for a moment, and disclosing a pale, beautiful face 
as she cast a look at the sky, she threw herself into 
the sea, her veil floating away as she sank. A rush 
of the waves dashed her body back against the 
rock, and, as it swayed to and fro, fragments of her 
dress were visible. A passing cartman, who had 
witnessed her Avild leap, plunged into the water, 
and with some difficulty caught the body, and 
brought it to the shore. 

"Poor thing! She's only a child," said a red- 
faced, stout woman, who was the mistress of a noto- 
rious beer-house on the flat, but whose coarse feat- 
ures were softened into a pitying expression as she 
looked upon the fair, girlish face, and slender form 



•204 North Beach, San Francisco. 

lying at lier feet, the blood running from two or 
tliree gashes cut by the sharp rocks upon her tem- 
ple and forehead. 

" God pity the darlin' ! She 's still alive," said 
another woman of the same class, as she stooped 
down and put her hand upon the girl's heart. 

Lifting her tenderly in their strong arms, she 
was carried into a house close at hand, and by the 
use of proper means brought back to consciousness. 
What were her thoughts when she opened her eyes, 
and in the half-darkened room looked around upon 
the rough denizens of the flat, I know not. Her 
first thought may have been that she had awaked 
in the world so awfully pictured by the grand and 
gloomy Florentine. Hiding her face with her 
hands, she gave way to an agony of grief. Her 
secret was the old story. Though but a school-girl, 
she had loved, sinned, and despaired, her weakness 
and folly culminating in attempted self-murder. 
Beyond this no more will be told : I will keep her 
secret, having reason to hope that the young life 
which she tried to throw away at North Beach is 
not wholly blighted. She is scarcely out of her 
teens now. 

Here a famous gambler, Tom H , came in 

the early part of an afternoon, and lying down at 
the foot of the huge sand-hill above the beach, shot 
himself through the breast. A boatman found him 



North Beach, San Francisco. 205 

lyiug vHi liis back, the blood streaming from the 
wound and crimsoning the wliite sand. It was a 
woman that caused him thus to throw up the game 
of life. He was a handsome fellow, muscular, 
clean-limbed, and full-chested, but it was a sad 
spectacle as they drove him away in an open wagon, 
the blood dripping along the street, the poor fellow 
gasping and moaning so piteously. Recovering 
consciousness that night, he tore away the band- 
ao'cs with which his wound had been stanched, de- 
daring he would die, for " the game was up." Be- 
fore daybreak next morning he had his wish, and 
died. 

Above us, on the hill-side, lived a family consist- 
in <»• of the mother, and father, and three children. 
One of the children Avas a bright, active little fel- 
low, five or six years old, who had the quickest foot 
and merriest laugh of all the little people that 
were in the habit of gathering on the beach to pick 
up shells, or play in the moist sand, or toy with the 
waves as they ended in a fringe of foam at their 
feet. On a windy day the little fellow had gone 
down to the beach, and amused himself by watch- 
ing the waves as they broke upon the embankment 
of the new street that was rising out of the sea. At 
one point there was a break in the embankment, 
leaving a passage for the waters that ebbed and 
flowed with the tide. A narrow plank was thrown 



206 Korth Beach, San Francisco. 



across the place for foot-passengers. The little 
boy started to cross it just as a huge wave rolled in 
from the sea, and was struck by it, and carried by 
its force into the deej) water beyond. His little 
playmates, paralyzed with terror, instead of giving 
the alarm at once, stood watching the spot where 
he went down. But at last the alarm was given, 
and a score of men plunged into the water and 
began to search for the child's body. A crowd 
gathered on the bank, looking on with the fascina- 
tion that so singularly attracts men and women to 
the tragic and the horrible. At length a strong 
swimmer and good diver found the little body, and 
brought it to the shore. It was cold and stark, the 
eyes staring, the sunny curls matted over the mar- 
ble brow, and his little jacket stained with the mud. 
One of the men took him in his arms, and, followed 
by the crowd, slowly ascended the hill. The 
mother was standing at the gate, wondering what 
such a procession meant, no one having had the 
presence of mind to prepare her for the blow. 
When she caught sight of the little face resting on 
the shoulder of the rough but kind-hearted inan 
who carried the dead child, she shrieked, as she 
fell to the earth — 

" O God ! My child ! my child ! " 

The sj)ot Avhere the child was drowned was in 
full view from the house, and the poor mother 



North Beach, Scni Francisco. 207 



could see it every time slie looked .from her door or 
window. I was glad when the place was filled uj), 
and a factory erected ui!)on the fateful spot. 

There is yet another aspect' of North Beach that 
lingers in memory. I have lain awake during 
many a long night of bodily pain and mental 
anguish, listening to the plash of the weaves as they 
broke gently upon the beach just below, and the 
music of the billows soothed my tortured nerves, 
and the voice of the mighty sea spoke to my troub- 
led soul, as the voice of Him whose footsteps are 
upon the great waters, and whose paths are in the 
seas. And it was from our cottage at North Beach 
that we bore to the grave our child of suffering, our 
Paul, whose twenty summers were all clouded by 
affliction, but beautiful in goodness, and whose 
resting-place beside another little grave near San 
Jose makes us turn many a wistful look toward 
the sunset. 



ST. HELEN'S AT SUNRISE. 

( Wrillen on the cms in Rnssian River Valley, Cnlifornin, at sunrise, 
February 4, 187.'?.) 




;:^;;^^'Tlie inomiiig-star fades, its pale gleam is flying, 
As the day-beams brighten o'er the wood-cov- 
ered hill. 

We swept down the valley as the night-curtain lifted, 
And the cold gray of morning spread over tlie sky, 

And tlie clouds in thick masses the strong wind had drifted 
Up the sides of the mountains "w hich towered so nigh. 

Lo! a glory supernal! St. Helen's, snoAV-covered, 
White, silent, and awful, sat high on her throne; 

The clouds at her foot, Avhere the storm-angel hovered, 
TJie clear light revealing the sky-piercing cone. 

O glory yet greater! The white, silent mountain, 
Transfigured "with sunrise, flames out in the light 

That beams on its face from its far-distant fountain, 
And bathes in full splendor its East-looking height. 

My soul, in that moment so rapt and so holy. 

Was transfigured with Nature, and felt the deep s])ell; 

My spirit, entranced, bent meekly and lowly 
With rapture that only an angel could tell. 

When the night-mists of time around me are flying, 
When the shadows of death gather round me apace, 

O Jesus, my Sun, shine on me when dying, 
Transfigure my soul with the liglit of thy face! 

(208) 



OQT 23 1901 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




D001«=54fiOt,77 



